|Ready for a nap on the chair in my room.|
|Discovering the birds on Nana's balcony.|
I love an orange kitty.
I love my black-and-white boys, I truly do, but there's something about the marmalade strips that makes my heart happy. Blame on my dad: He had an orange cat so a home doesn't feel complete without one.
When Santa didn't have an orange kitten to leave me on Christmas Eve (and I checked my stocking thoroughly), I thought maybe my husband would come through for Valentine's Day, but the look on his face suggested he was not on board about getting a third cat. An "adoption day" a couple of Saturdays ago offered no kittens and a woman told me that orange cats were usually male. I needed a female so it seemed as if I would be out of luck. I decided to wait until the spring crop landed into the local rescue organizations and see who turned up.
Then on Valentine's Day, the LA Animal Shelter in Amherst posted photos of a bunch of new kittens on their Facebook page, and there she was: my little orange kitten. Millie.
We call her "Emily" -- but we call her a lot of other names like Mimi and Pinky and Pumpkin. She doesn't actually respond to any name, not even her shelter name.
After a couple of days of hissing and staring and chasing, Millie is part of the family and the boys are playing with her, and I suspect she's already running the household. She's as much fun as a kitten is supposed to be, but if I have to say to the dog one more time, "It's just a kitten," I'm going to scream.
Let's all just be chill like Mill.
|Keeping an eye on the downstairs from big brothers' perch.|