New Kits on the Block

This is going to require a couple of backstories before the full tale can be told.

On Saturday, I mowed two thirds of my lawn. I ran the mower until it sputtered and died, unable to pull any more fuel from the tank, largely because there was no more gas in the gas tank. I refilled the tank and started the mower, but a combination of me filling the tank too full and me running the tank too dry before filling the tank too full resulted in a mower that would start, but wouldn't keep running. I wheeled it down in front of my out building and let it sit, hoping some of the gasoline would evaporate out and that the vapor pressure would help fill the lines.

On Sunday, my kids were playing hide-and-seek. On the back porch, I have a big rubbermaid bin for the kids to put their outside toys in. We also had a pollen-encrusted blanket that we use for picnics in the backyard. While playing hide-and-seek, my daughter shoved the blanket into the bin so that she could lay down in it in order to hide. When they were done, they left the blanket in the bin.

Alright, now that the back stories are out of the way, I can get to the meat of the situation. This morning, I was watching the weather and saw that there was a slight chance of showers later in the afternoon. So, I got showered and dressed and went downstairs to put the lawnmower up onto the patio in front of my out building so that it would be sheltered from any rain. I walked out onto the back porch, had no problems or anything. I put the mower away, slapped my hands together in a brushing-them-off sort of manner, celebrating a job well-done, and I walked back up to the back porch.

Our back porch is really rather nice. It's a decent size, it's screened in, has a ceiling fan, the works. The only problem is the door was hung poorly, and so it's really difficult to get open and closed, so to accommodate the comings and goings of the children, we just leave the door open.

As I was walking back up onto the back porch, I heard something moving around. I looked over to where the ruckus was, and I saw a fuzzy, gray tail.

Oh damn, I thought, another squirrel has gotten in here. No bother. I'll just go in the house and it will run down the steps and be gone. Because squirrels and house wrens get on there all the time, I thought nothing more of it, and I went to go into the house.

That's when the furry little fucker charged me.

And that's when I learned that it wasn't a squirrel, but a cat. It was a shaggy, gray, somewhat mottled like a calico cat, but not quite a calico. It was some sort of gray-tabby-calico bastard mix.

The cat ran past me without incident and charged off into the woods.

Ha ha! Fucking cat, I thought, be gone, scruffy beast! The sad thing is, I really talk like that in my mind. With the cat off the porch, and me not wanting to encourage it to come back onto the porch, I went to shut the door.

I got the door about 90% of the way closed, when I heard, from behind me, the pitiful chorus of "Mew! Mewmew! Mew mew mew! Mewmew! Mew! Mewmew!"

"Oh fuck," I said aloud, "we have kittens."

Despite the fact that I don't necessarily want stray cats having kittens on my back porch, I opened the door back up so that the Mama cat could return to her brood--hopefully to move them. I went over and looked and, sure enough, in the bin with the blanket, there's some kittens. They're small, their eyes are still closed, but they're kittens.

*sigh*

Now, just the other day I was sitting around thinking about how much I missed my cats, since I've had three fabulous cats over the course of my life, and some rather dickish ones. In fact, the last cat that I had picked out my wife for me. I brought my then girlfriend over to my apartment and my cat, who normally saw visitors and said "Fuck you" before going to lay on my bed, came out and climbed up onto my girlfriend's lap. If the big tits and the red hair and excellent lip musculature from a lifetime in the marching band weren't enough to convince me that she was a keeper, the cat's approval sealed the deal.

Unfortunately, when we got married, we sent the cat to my mom and dad's house, where my dad got sick of her playing with milk rings in the middle of the night in the dining room, and threw her outside. The cat was never seen again.

*sigh*

However, my daughter is allergic to cats. Like, violently. So we've never really thought we could--or should--have cats.

Despite all this, apparently, over night, I became the proud owner of some kittens. Like a fucking idiot, I showed the kittens to my daughter because the bin is conveniently located under one of the windows of the living room. This meant that my kids were both manning the windows in hopes of seeing the mother cat come back to the kittens, which she didn't do in the fifteen minutes between the discovery of the kittens and time to go to the bus stop.

And, for a couple of moments, I thought Well, I could just take them down to the stream while the mother cat is away and take care of this problem. But then I couldn't, because I'd have dead kittens weighing on my soul, and, frankly, I've got enough stains on the immortal portion of my being, I don't need to be dragging around a bunch of dead kittens like Jacob Marley and his chains.

To that end...anyone want a free kitten? Or have a good recipe for General Tso's Chicken?