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Home: The Toast

Dangnation, what a page-turner this saga was, am I in the neighborhood of rightness or what? The wee cat, insinuating himself around the borders of my property, mewing scantily and clutching with his teethlings at whatever scraps I would render unto him! What was to become of him? Too small and scraggly to fend for himself, having been abandoned by kith and kin alike, I knew I had to snatchle him up.

So I come home yesterday, as is my custom, to find this little number setting up his shingle on my back porch.

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NO. NO. NO. I REJECT THE SMALLNESS OF HIM IN THE ABSOLUTE.

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(The huskier fellow with the similar color scheme in the background is mine own cat, name of Milo; there were SEVERAL ENTIRE MINUTES where they played together but I was too overcome to take any pictures, sadly.)

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HE IS SCARCE LARGER THAN THE CAN WHAT WHICH I USED TO FEED HIM, FRIENDS.

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I spent the better part of an hour laying carefully and unthreateningly near the food, playing cat sounds from a cat-sound app I installed on my phone. Turns out I didn’t have to do any of that, because after a few more minutes of playing, Milo and the malnourished kitten scurried into the house and all I had to do was follow and shut the door after them. HE COTCHED HIMSELF, MY SUNDRY LOVES.

Here he is, safely ensconced among my many bathrobes, looking at a ferocious jug of food.

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And here he is, a bit nervous yet holding his own, on his way to the vet, where he was declared a bit thin and neglected for his age (ONE POINT FOUR POUNDS AND ALMOST THREE MONTHS OLD) but otherwise in fairly good health.

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He is spending the night in the coziest den I can make for him, and in the morrow he is off to my friend Liz’s house, where he will spend the rest of his days being cosseted, as befits a child of late-stage capitalism.

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