...As Time Goes By

Okay, so I'm a lazy. Not in actuality, but in blogging, I'm a lazy. A bad, bad, shameful lazy.

T-Sprout is getting to be a big, big boy. He's quickly living up to his Tyranosaurus nickname, as he weighed in at 12 lbs, 24 in before turning two months. He's a BIG sucker. I'm so proud of myself. My critical lack of sleep and a messy house are starting to pay off.

I swear all I do some days is nurse the baby, cook food for the big kids (all three, if you count the husbando), feed the pets and nurse the baby. Oh well, they're not little for too terribly long. Wait 'til he's two and I'll LONG for the days when he held still and nursed!

The pet population continues to grow around here. On the third, HB, pesimst, T-S and I went out to get in the car and run errands. There was a tiny "MEW!" A kitten! pesimst asked if it was a cat.

MEW!

No, dear. A KITTEN.

MEW!

I peered under the truck. He peered into the back of the truck. No kitten.

MEW!

It was IN the truck. As in, under the hood. Behind the fan.

MEW!

I coaxed.

MEW!

He coaxed.

MEW!

Still no kitten. Fine. Be that way. We ran errands. We came home.

MEW!

Okay, we must remove the kitten before the truck can be started.

MEW!

Tuna? Tuna's always a good cat-extractor.

MEW!!!

Still no kitten. Although its tiny black and white face did appear for a moment.

MEW!

Long story not quite so long, I finally got a hand on its scruff, dragged it free, carried it swiftly to the bathroom sink and washed the HELL out of it. Poor baby was covered in ticks, fleas, seed ticks, burrs and filthy car gunk.

He is, by far, the tiniest excuse for a cat I've ever seen. That is to say, for his age, he's BITTY. He's around 8 or 9 weeks (about the same age as T-Sprout) and about the size of a 5 or 6 week old. Cute, CUTE baby. Sweet as can be, incredibly, after all I put him through, bathing him twice and digging horrible, nasty, biting things off him.

His only injuries appear to be a bang on the nose and a burn on his chin. They're both healing quickly, and he's getting plump from an abundance of good food. His name?

Foster. Foster Resque.

He MUST find a new home soon, or I'm afraid I won't be able to part with him. Madame McFluff wishes the fan had gotten him. FF wishes we'd forcibly kidnap kittens more often. Kitchen Cat doesn't give a rat's ass, provided he doesn't get in her chair, eat her food or, heaven forbid, get between her and the water bowl.

So that's the latest from my (wildly untidy, kind of overgrown, going-back-to-the-wild) garden. If you're ever in this neck of the woods, stop by and say howdy. And bring chocolate and booze. Lots and lots of chocolate and booze....