You may recall that I mentioned Rhea and I were gifted with three, cute, orange and white kittens, just a few days before Christmas. Their names are Albert (named after a cat we had back in the 70s), Freckles, who has orange spots on the back of his head and neck (named for a Springer Spaniel we also owned back in early 2000s), and Ginger, who is all-orange, with a white belly.
We really only wanted one kitten, but the lady who gave them to us insisted that we take all three, because “they’re bonded.” Well, yes, you can say that again… “they’re bonded.” Did I hear an echo in here? Well, they do sleep together all curled up on the couch or on our waterbed, and they are constantly grooming themselves and one another.
They made it through the winter and have grown into nearly adult size cats over the past nine months. I guess that would qualify them as teenagers, and you know teenagers, it’s the age when their hair starts growing longer, they begin disobeying you, and then there’s that “raging hormones” thing when they begin lookin’ for love in all the wrong places. Take Ginger, for instance, he’s no longer with us. I think he may have eloped with his girlfriend down the street. Either that or he’s imitating a manhole cover on Crest Forest Drive, because we haven’t seen him for several months. So, we’re now down to just two cats in the yard.
I’ll light the fire you place the flowers in the vase that you bought me today. Staring at the fire, for hours and hours, while I listen to you play your love songs all night long for me, only me, and rest your head for just five minutes. Everything is done, such a cozy room (such a cozy room). Our house is a very, very fine house with two cats in the yard. (“Our House” – Crosby, Stills and Nash – 1970)
The two that we still have are natural born killers and will kill anything that’s smaller than them that moves, including small bugs, mice, lizards and gophers. And they’re wanderers because we keep getting phone calls from a lady a half-mile away requesting us to come pick them up, which we promptly do. Next stop is the veterinarian to get their little tubes tied. Albert is a real rascal; he likes to help me write these articles by tromping all over the keeeeeeboarrrd. Stop that, Albert, bad kitty!
Freckles is a real character. For instance, I had just finished washing the Mottmobile the other day, when he suddenly leapt off the deck onto the roof of my car and left a trail of muddy footprints all over the roof and hood. Bad kitty, Freckles, no kitty treats for you! Fortunately, the Missus showed up just in time to clean up the mess.
Our house is a very fine house with two cats in the yard. Life used to be so hard, now everything is easy ‘cause of you.
Keep it flyin’, Uncle Mott