Until three years ago, anyone who knew me and Jim would swear we were
dog people to the core; we never really wanted a kitten or good forbid a
full grown cat! We (read me - Jim didn't think it, he already knew it)
thought they were aloof and just a tad psychopathic. Then a sick
great-uncle, a stepped on paw and Mother's Day created the perfect
storm.My Great-uncle Frank, a WWII veteran, was getting frailer and was required weekly visits to the VA hospital in Columbia. My Granny was overwhelmed with his care while Grandpa looked upon this as an opportunity to speed under the guise of getting him to the VA in a timely manor (as if Pawpaw needed an excuse)!
So, what does any of this have to do with kitties? Well, one of my cousins decided that Granny's house was the perfect home for kittens so recently born their eyes had not even opened, so she dropped tiny grey tabbies off in Granny's backyard right before Mother's Day. Their eyes were still closed and they were wandering around outside aimlessly. Poor things. Pitiful right? It gets worse...on his way out to the shed to get something for Granny, Grandpa steps on one's paw and mashes it. As luck would have it (well, our luck anyway) we were there when Pawpaw was doing the, "Damn, I Just Stepped On A Kitten" dance, so Granny asked us to take them home, do what we could for the one that was limping around (the kitten, not Pawpaw) and bottle feed them until they were old enough to learn not to get under foot since she was so busy.
As Josh was still of tender years, in my mind anyway, my first task was to train Jim not to refer to the kittens in monosyllable, four-letter words. So, mistake number one: we named the kittens. The limping little kitten became "Chester," and the healthy one was "Smoke." Did I forget to mention that Jim and I both spent way too much time watching Gunsmoke? So, a trip to the local supercenter store resulted in Kitty Milk Replacement, kitten nursing bottles (who even knew?), a playpen, bedding and somehow the better part of $50 later and Jim announced we were ready to deal with two kittens that could not have been more than ten days old. Boy, was he wrong that time.
Less than 48 hours later we came home from work to find the healthier kitty had died and we were left with Chester. Two visits to the Vet later we found out Chester was a girl! Jim being the more practical (he sometimes says bullheaded, I mostly say boneheaded - we know who is right) of the two of us, insisted that just because Chester was female was no reason to change her name. So, Chester the limping, female kitten stayed with us and while we bottle-fed her and started her on wet kitten food mixed with milk, she gained weight and was improving! Or so we thought.
The night before Vet visit number four, Chester started wobbling we she tried to walk, would not eat or drink water unless Jim put it in her mouth with an eye-dropper. Then, about 3 o'clock in the morning, she let out a whelp, lost all motor skills and died. Sobbing we went by the vet's office the next morning and my sweet husband, while wiping his eyes with his hanky, tells them to cancel the appointment that Chester was dead. The vet tells us that we did all we could and kittens rarely survive when separated from their mother that early.
She then tells us of this wonderful kitty that had been found in a rest area parking lot. The little fellow was so dirty and had maggot larvae on his back that they named him Clint after Dirty Harry. She said that he was a few weeks older and eating well as a matter of fact the office staff was taking turns taking him home at night. We explained we were not cat people but we would think about it.
When we both got home that night we both immediately looked for a kitten... The next morning Jim went back to the Vet and told them we wanted Clint. He now lives with us, but the name Clint had to go. I had just finished re-reading Harper Lee's, "To Kill A Mockingbird," and, feeling literary, I decided his name would be Atticus. Now, three years later Atticus is not a "house cat" try as we might. He is aloof and just a tad psychopathic (Jim really tries hard and only says, "I told you so" four or five times a month). After months of trying to sneak in the house without letting him out only to slam our hands, or on some occasions him, in the door we have reached a truce - on his terms, of course. He lives with us on cold and rainy nights and the rest of the time he sits on the porch like one of those lion statues we cannot afford. Oh, and he lets us feed him whenever he feels like making an appearance at the back door.
