I am sad to report that Gilligan and Spanky were still at the pet store yesterday morning. Not only that, as soon as I walked through the door, they both zipped into the litter box and hid there. I sweet-talked them, I let them sniff my fingers, I tried petting them, and nothin’. They don’t remember me and they don’t want anything to do with me. The only time they showed any sign of anything other than abject fear was when Jack Frost (who still hasn’t been adopted) wandered by their cage. Spanky ran over to the bars and looked lovingly at Jack Frost (these kittens, I’m tellin’ ya, they really love the grown-up cats), but when I went over to open the door to the cage, Spanky zipped back into the litter box.

Probably a good thing; Jack Frost has no use for little kittens. Or any other cats at all, really.

I’m going back to the pet store on Wednesday, covering for the Wednesday evening cleaners (who are on vacation); I’m hoping that they’ve been adopted before then by some soft-hearted sucker cat lover.

Maryanne – or “Little Miss”, as Fred calls her – pretty much has the run of the house these days. We put her in the foster kitten room at night, then Fred lets her out when he gets up at the crack of dawn, and she stays out all day. She’s a quiet thing, and every once in a while I have to go looking for her just to make sure she wasn’t “accidentally” killed by one of the big cats. She prefers to spend her time upstairs, sometimes on the cat tree in the foster room, sometimes on Fred’s bed, sometimes just hanging out on the stairs.

Keeping an eye out in case her boyfriend Tommy comes along.

* * *

It always starts out sweetly with these two, usually a grooming love session in the kitchen.


(It totally looks like Sugarbutt is nursing, here. He’s not. I swear it! It’s all innocent grooming. Apparently Tommy is a dirty, dirty boy.)

And it always degenerates into kicking and biting and yowling in about ten seconds flat.

Brudderly love. Nothin’ like it.


2006: No entry.
2005: No entry.

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