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.
NO. NO. NO. I REJECT THE SMALLNESS OF HIM IN THE ABSOLUTE.
(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.)
HE IS SCARCE LARGER THAN THE CAN WHAT WHICH I USED TO FEED HIM, FRIENDS.
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.
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.
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.
Mallory is an Editor of The Toast.