You know that point in life when you sit back and realize that you are finally in a place in which you can get what you WANT, not what you should get? Like when you buy a new car off the lot with all the perks instead of buying your aunt's decades old rusted out Ford that you have to push start? Or when you purchase your own high speed fibre optic internet for your home instead of trading weird and borderline inappropriate favours with your neighbor for their wireless password? Or when you finally buy your very own pair of designer jeans instead of borrowing a pair from a friend and then avoiding her for two years?
Well, we did it.
After having pined over one for nearly 15 years, we got a kitten. Not just ANY kitten though, we got... a Maine Coon.
After coming to the realization that this was not the type of cat to end up in a shelter we did something we never, ever, EVER thought we would do - we bought a kitten.
We are more likely to be the one trying to re-home a box of kittens in front of a Walmart than the ones to buy a kitten (took in a stray cat in -40. She had kittens 3 hours later). Our dog was a Chinese street dog covered in fleas and abused. We think he's some kind of shihtsu (more shit than tsu, though), and he's not happy about the new arrival.
Dermot the Chinese Kitchen Cat is even less amused, and rotates between glowering at us from above like a fiendish gargoyle and ignoring us like a sullen teenager. We've explained his own origin story (rescued from a Chinese restaurant menu at 4 weeks old in Dongguan) but he still shows no appreciation whatsoever.
(that's him in the back on his way to steal Christmas)
So it's not necessary to elaborate that these two aren't happy about the kitten.
Although I don't think it helped that the cat we bought was feral and diseased as f%&k.
There was something seriously wrong with this cat. It was very expensive and we had driven 1.5 hours just to collect her. The poor thing looked like it needed to be put down so instead of doing the normal thing and walking away we took her home - love cures all, right?
It was far too late when we realized that the saying is 'love cures people', not cats.
This wasn't a cat that we got, it was something else. It's ears were stuffed with what looked like coffee grounds. One eye was swollen and infected shut. It's coat was covered in an oil-like substance, it was near skeletal and my GOD did it stink The gas coming out of that tiny cat could drop a moose! 1.5 hours of holding this tiny, feral, tear-gas farting cat with all of the windows cracked in the rain. We got it home, introduced it to its litter box and OH MY GOD THAT CANNOT BE NATURAL. Our other cat wouldn't even go near the litter box to cover up that bomb. It permeated throughout the house like a department store perfume aisle, saturating our clothes, our skin and our souls.
Despite its' near death demeanor and scent of infected skunk it seemed to actually be a pretty sweet kitten. We went so far as to let the kids name it (Princess Zelda, the only Princess name we could all agree on) and we took to the task of cleaning this thing up.
We brushed. We soaped. We plucked. We wiped. We trimmed. We pulled hunks of black coffee grinds out of its ears like you wouldn't believe. We cleansed this 'cat' in every conceivable way.
In the end we dropped a small fortune at the vet, coming back with ear cleaner, ear drops, eye drops and antibiotics. After a few days, the kitten was starting to turn a corner.
Pleased with ourselves, we took all three back to the vet for their pet passport shots. Yet this is where it all went downhill. It turns out that our feral kitten had somehow infected Dermot and Huar Huar with it's feralness. Empty out your bank account and take this boatload of pet medication home with you - good luck with that.
Deflated, we gathered up our diseased, furious assorted pets and kids and made our way back through the pet store. This is difficult enough being so outnumbered but much worse when your adult brains are occupied with how this is going to delay your pre-planned international move in a few weeks. I carried 'stinky' (Kitten's nickname) with both hands in a large blue lego box (don't judge me, we were there to buy a second carrier as well!), covered in sweat and panting from the ordeal of holding down my dog for a shot earlier. Lochlynn carried the assorted meds like a Columbian drug mule behind me and Kaitie held the leash, trying to wrangle Huar Huar away from peeing on everything in the store at ankle height.
Paul was busy with Satan.
Dermot screeched and yowled and cursed and tore apart the internal lining of his carrier in a rage so violent that it swung the carrier through the aisles as Paul struggled to hold on. Orange fur spurt out from between the bars like a molting explosion and claws came through gaps at will, lunging for Paul's skin and vital organs with claws outstreched and reaching for sweet vengence. He was out for blood, snorting and spitting inside that wild cat carrier like we'd shoved him in there with a cobra. It couldn't get worse - the sweat had mixed with the flying orange fur leaving us haggard and weary, the kids were tangled in the dog and my lego-box was mewing pitifully. Paul was fighting his way down the aisle with the possessed cat carrier out in front of him at arms' length like an ebola sample...
And we walked into a family from the kids' school.
So. All in all it could be worse. Kitty is now doing remarkably well.
Dermot is not pleased about having to take medication. Our Dermot-pill daily gear consists of heavy coats, gardening gloves, a syringe of water, a towel, a quick hand and prayer.
And Huar Huar is still an idiot.
Part I - time for your pill!
Part II - may as well fight him for it