In his new role as Only Cat, Burnaby is going nuts. When he's not following us around or flopping onto his back so that we'll wrestle with him, the poor guy has taken to chasing his own tail for minutes on end.
I keep promising him that we'll find him some kittens to play with. Thanks to this blog, Glenn put us in touch with his dentist, Richard, who has been taking in semi-feral cats. He trapped a pregnant one last month, and, with the help of a vet who comes to the house every couple of days, has been socializing the four kittens.
They were born the day after Cleio died, which puts them at a few days over three weeks old. The mother cat, who just about puts up with Richard, will never teach her kittens to trust people, so he wants them out of her care as soon as possible. He and the vet are thinking eight weeks. That's about four weeks from now.
Time to clean the house.
Yesterday we went to visit the little critters. There are three boys and a girl. I have names -- Mojo and Moxie -- I just don't know which two will be getting them.
Richard brought out just two at first. Here they are, on my legs, before we went with them to a blanket in the living room. These little guys sure made a lot of noise. They were much happier on the blanket.
Mr. Pushkin, rescued from Brooklyn, oversaw the proceedings.
Burnaby's brother, Erazmo, was a gray tabby who died of FIP at five months. I picked the name Mojo to remember Erazmo. I think this little guy is going to be Mojo.
Yeah, I know this picture is blurry, but the little fella is cute anyway.
Richard took him back in so that he could drink his dinner, and he brought out the gray girl.
I think she's Moxie.
Richard already named the fourth one. He's got a hunch that Spats might be staying at his house.
Moxie and Spats decided that Jack's lap was the place to be. Every cat we've ever had has come to the same conclusion.
Mojo discovered the wonders of the lap as well, and parked himself there.
Spats climbed on board:
We spent over two hours playing with the kittens. Next week we'll go back and decide who's coming home with us. I figure we'll let the kittens pick us, but I'm pretty sure that Moxie is Moxie. Mojo might be the tabby or the one who isn't Spats. We'll see.
This morning, Burnaby, in an attempt to prove that he, at six and a half years old, is still a kitten, got himself good and riled up over his refillable catnip carrot, a gift from Sean and Dale.
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