We have a new kitten.
She is made of magic and fur and cuteness.
I love her. Even when she attacks my toes and tries to eat them, I love her. Even when she crawls along the back of the sofa and jumps onto my head with her claws fully out, I love her. Even when she boxes with my legs when I’m trying to get to the kitchen, I love her.
Kittens are yummy.
When Barry asked me what I wanted for Mother’s Day, I said, “I want a kitten. Bring me pint-sized, fuzzy adorableness so that we can take pictures and write LOL Catz captions beneath them.”
So last Sunday, we went to the kitty adoption bus that I frequent on my weekend walks. (Yes. I am one of those people. I sit and hold every kitten and cat and wonder just how many animals you can have before you fall into that eccentric category and start wearing housedresses with socks and having a wallet with a chain of fold-out pictures of all your pets that you show to strangers on park benches while telling them how much you’ve spent on various kitty medical procedures: “This is Mr. Fido P. Beagle, who has incontinence and that’s why he’s wearing a diaper in this picture. Now, Matilda Poufytail is a calico and will only eat wet food because of her intestinal surgery…”)
Anyhoo, we adopted an eight-week old tortoiseshell kitten with a face like a bat’s and a purr like a revving hotrod and brought her home whereupon Little Squeak GLARED at me and did everything short of holding up a paw and saying, “Oh hell to the no!” In the past week, Squeak has been playing Bette Davis’s part in “Who’s Afraid of Baby Jane.” I have not heard that much hissing and mewling and growling since I attempted the Barney’s Warehouse one-day sale ages ago. I found cigarette stubs in front of my house yesterday, and I’m pretty sure they’re Squeak’s.
I had also forgotten that having a kitten is a lot like having a new baby, and nobody gets any sleep. Hoo boy. We kept the kitty in Josh’s room, away from Squeak, and not only did she do that cat thing and sleep during the day so she’d have plenty of energy to play and knock things over and make noise in the night, but she somehow learned how to climb the ladder to Josh’s loft bed (I’m telling you this runty thing fits in one hand) so that she could pounce on him while he tried to sleep. This resulted in much waking in the night and a zombiefied household for three days straight. My favorite thing, though, was the day I was sitting on Josh’s floor and I watched his Ugly Doll Wedgehead being slowly dragged into the mysterious closet lair of the kitten-monster. Wedgehead was four times her size but he didn’t stand a chance.
The naming process took a few days as we all attempted to see what would stick:
Kitty Pryde (my first choice)
Shellshocker! (Josh’s choice)
My friend Tortoro
Trixie Superhero Fuzzkins III (my choice. The boys graciously looked away into the distance when I said it)
Moxie (an early Barry offering due to kitten’s intrepid nature)
Daisy Danger (thanks, Shannon)
Killer (another Josh choice)
Wolverine (X-Men names ran fast and furiously)
Godzilla Jane, Rodan, Mothra-Kitty
and so on
And finally, Barry looked at her fuzzy chocolate face and said, “Cocoa?” which I am spelling “Coco” in my head, just like Chanel, and we all agreed. Not that it matters. I’m sure I will resort to calling her “Kitty” just like I do Squeak. (My favorite stuffed animal from ages ago, a pig, is named…Pig. Really, it’s a miracle that Josh is not named “Kid” though I do call him “Boy” a lot of the time. It’s good he has a father.)
So our days and nights have been occupied by all things kittenish, because you know what? Kittens are an instant cure for what ails you. They are adorable and funny and fun. And even Squeak is slowly coming around. Last night was their first sleepover together and I did not come down this morning to find a fat Squeak licking her paws amidst tufts of brown fur. It is, however, very funny to see Squeak playing mean girl cat. She likes to flick her tail, knowing this will draw Cocoa’s attention. Predictably, Cocoa will try to play with Squeak’s tail and then Squeak will act indignant and hiss and look at me like, “You see? You see what she did? Why am I being tortured by this interloper?” And I will say, “Squeak, be nice.” And she will glare at me as if to say, “No one here understands me. I’m going to my room to listen to Radiohead” before sauntering away to sulk in the big chair.
Cats amuse me.
BTW, thanks for all your thoughts about MySpace versus Facebook. It was enormously helpful. I realized I am far too lazy to have more than this one blog on LJ for now, but I probably wouldn’t have been able to come to that conclusion without your invaluable input.
Now I am off to buy another cat dancer so I can enjoy me some kitty insanity this afternoon. Will post a picture of Miss Cocoa as soon as I can.