Stinky
Six or seven weeks ago, Robyn and I took on another set of foster kittens. Four, to be exact, who lived for the first several weeks of their lives behind a washing machine in some lady’s house. When the lady brought them to the shelter Robyn volunteers for, she told the shelter owner that she played with the kittens all the time and that they were really tame.
This would be a lie.
The kittens, whom we named Gilligan, Tina Louise, Spanky, and Maryann, were very nearly feral. Especially Maryann, the runt. It took nearly three weeks before I could even touch her without getting hissed at, but she finally let me touch her a little.
Robyn calls me “the cat whisperer” because I can usually win any cat over with my sweet-talkin’ ways.
Gradually, three of the kittens went to the pet store to be adopted, but not Maryann, because she wasn’t ready. Once the others were gone, though, she really started to come out of her shell. And she took quite the shine to young Tom Cullen, who we started calling her boyfriend.
Come to think of it, all the kittens liked Tommy, perhaps because he’s always so laid back and easygoing. M-O-O-N, that spells easygoing.
When she was the only kitten left, we let her out of the cat room to live in genpop with the other kitties. She seemed to like it quite a bit, and made herself at home.
A little over two weeks ago, Robyn went to Maine to visit with her family. We discussed taking Maryann — whom I had started calling “Stinky”, “Stinker”, and “Little Miss Stinkybutt” (no, she didn’t) by then — to the pet store, but ultimately decided she wasn’t ready yet. So, Robyn went to Maine and left the Faire Stinkum with me and the other cats.
Boy, did she grow on me. Always running around with her ass on fire; playing with the other cats; loving on Tom Cullen and Mister Boogers, both of whom liked to hold her down and lick on her head. She had this cute little flirty way about her, where she’d run from you, but just until she reached a rug. Then she’d flop down and roll over to be rubbed.
Just not on the belly. She didn’t like that.
Miss Stinky made herself right at home until Robyn got back from Maine last week. She started laying behind me in the chair when I was at my computer, and laying curled up in my lap when I was watching TV at night. From watching her, you’d never guess she started out so wild, except for the occasional bout of skittishness.
But then Robyn got home, and it was time for Stinkypoo to go to the store. Robyn took her on Friday morning, and put her in one of the cages there.
This was her response:
I missed my little Stinky.
Yesterday, while I was taking a rest break from shed building, Robyn told me that Maryann’s cage looked like she’d spent Sunday night trying to dig her way through the metal.
It nearly broke my heart.
I started making noises about how it might be okay to have a seventh cat since we lived in the country now (no, Mama and Newt are NOT ours, and it therefore would not make nine). I talked about it, and talked some more, then for good measure I talked about it more.
I had just about decided to stop pushing it — after all, Maryann is a blue-eyed Siamese-mix and would probably get adopted quickly, according to Robyn — when I read this story.
It’s about a man who rescued a little Siamese kitten from traffic, got applauded by other motorists, and decided to keep the kitten.
That little rescued Siamese kitten would be their seventh cat.
It was sort of like Kismet, you know?
When I got to the store this afternoon, she was hiding in her litter box. I opened the door to her cage. I could see her peeking at me through the litter box vent.
“Hey, little Stinky,” I said in my effeminate cat voice.
She let out a yowl, bolted out of the litter box, and climbed into my arms.
Like I said. Kismet.
Ahem.
So, um, say hello to my little friend:
Thirsty after the drive.
Reunited with her boyfriend
Looking retarded after sniffing a little too vigorously at Tom’s ear.
Now, all we need to do is come up with a suitable name for her.
I finished the base of the shed yesterday. Here’s what it looks like now:
I grew up hearing a lot of country music, courtesy of my dad. Here’s one for you that was an oldie when I was born.
But, damn, is it pretty.
