When we moved into our house after many years of condo life, we felt like we had been released from prison. We were ecstatic that we could play the stereo as loud as we wanted and do laundry at midnight and dry wet towels on the patio. And we were thrilled that we could finally have pets.
Within six months we had acquired 2 kittens, a cat and a dog, all rescue animals, and our menagerie was complete. Now however, 16 years later, we have just two old cats, both ornery and intolerant of any domestic changes.
That’s why the thought of adopting a kitten was the farthest thing from my mind when I took one of the senior cats to the vet. My sister, who had taken her dog to the same vet the day before, had warned me that there was a rescue kitten up for adoption in the waiting room. “You won’t be able to resist this one,” she texted. “Watch me,” I responded.
Later that evening my partner and I were admiring our new kitten. Eight weeks old and roughly the size of a softball, she fit comfortably in the palm of my hand. Charcoal gray, with huge green eyes, she spent the first day and night curled up on our respective laps, purring quietly in her sleep.
We decided that for the short term we should keep her caged unless we were there to supervise, because we remembered all too well the havoc that one small kitten can create. “But this is the world’s best kitten,” I marveled. “She is well behaved,” my partner added.
It was the third day that we both running late and we rushed out of the house early in the morning. It was lunch time before I finally had time to text my partner. “Sorry I ran out this AM.” I texted. “Thanks for locking up the kitten.”
After a brief, appalled silence, my partner responded. “I didn’t lock up the kitten,” he texted. ”YOU locked up the kitten.” If there was more I didn’t read it; my car keys were already in my hand.
From the outside the house seemed quiet enough, but I could not open the front door; I was able to force it open just enough to see that the throw-rug on the inside had been bunched up, preventing the door from opening. This was not a good sign,so I went to the back of the house , walked in through the kitchen door and promptly slipped on the wet tile floor where the old cats’ water dish had been upended. Cursing, I got up, crunching on the dry food that had also been spilled, and saw that the wastebasket was on its side, its contents spread across the kitchen and dining room.
The house was still eerily quiet as I righted the trash can but then I stopped short when I saw the living room, which was festooned with toilet paper. Every throw pillow and sofa cushion was on the floor. The large potted plant in the corner of the room was on its side and several vases were on the floor. The basket where we keep old newspapers had been tipped over and the lampshade on the end table was askew. The picture over the sofa was at a rakish angle. There was not a cat in sight.
I eventually found the senior cats murmuring angrily, in the back of the closet, their refuge during severe storms and emotional upheaval. They were not pleased. The kitten was in her cage, exquisitely asleep. She opened one eye when she heard me, stretched and rolled over, purring contentedly.
Just then my partner came home. “Can I come in?” he asked.
“Do you have a ticket?” I answered.
Forty-five minutes later the house was back in order, none the worse for wear. “You know,” my partner said, “maybe we should get another kitten. If they can amuse each other maybe they’ll stay out of trouble.”
I looked at him for a long moment while I carefully formulated my response. “OK,” I said.