It's been a busy week and I bet, for those of you without kitten shenanigans, it's probably been a long week. And for those of you who work, it's actually the start of another week, but in my defense, I was away this weekend. Where was I? I was up in Chesterfield, visiting the in-laws for our annual summer birthdays celebrations. It was grown-up fun without any kitty babies, so yes, we had Pimms, amber ales and a sometime-sunshine barbecue. It was not all sometime-sunshine and lollipops, though. As I was leaving the kittens, I had heaps of anxiety. Who could handle them? Would I be condemning someone to a weekend of kitten drudgery? Would the kittens act out? Would any of them hurt themselves or escape? And could I put into a manual all that I'd learned and all that needed to be done?
But before I launch into that first, I should mention another first. When CATS (my former team) disbanded, we founded the ExCATS Social Club and meet up every Tuesday evening. This Tuesday, I had the CATS come round to meet my little angels. I was seriously excited and I could tell the kittens were too. I knew my former team were from all the exclamation points in the text and email exchanges. I hadn't determined if I'd allow the kittens out of their pen and was going to play it by ear. After a few glasses of Prosecco, it seemed harmless and out the kitties came. They were a bit startled to find 6 regular-size humans lounging about in various stations of our living room, but the allure of running amok was too strong. They fell into their usual circuit, under the sofa, over the bottom shelf of the coffee table, round the kitchen and back. After a few loops, they began to take notice of the legs planted here and there along their way. With notice, came tiny, razor-sharp claws and a fascination with patterned tights.
It was a delightful hour of rambunctious kittens, adult gossip and wine. Dill submitted to being stroked behind the ears briefly as he halted play for a breather. Scout let everyone rub his head as I carried him around, introducing him to our guests. He also used my leg as a trench behind which to hide and from which to pounce on others. Boo Radley tried to smuggle himself out in a handbag. And all kittens enjoyed climbing our ginormous orange bean bag that was out for the occasion. All was going well, until I noticed a sticky surprise in the washing machine. It was bad news for our Royal Wedding tea towel and as any good hostess would do, I quickly and quietly stuffed it into the rubbish bin--and carried on refilling glasses (after a splash of sanitizing gel, of course). A tiny indiscretion wasn't going to put a stop to our evening.
Well, it didn't stop there. In mid-sentence, one of the guests broke off and stared behind me. I turn round to see Atticus, his face in an expression of intense concentration. He was squatting. He was also doing a poo on the towel covering the floor OUTSIDE his pen. Oy. My face must have been pretty pink. As you can imagine, everyone reached for their things, politely excusing themselves. Only to discover that any jackets left on the orange bean bag were, hmmm, how to put it, well-hydrated throughout the evening. Plastic bags for jackets handed out, goodbyes hugged out, I turned to the task of getting all 6 kittens back home. Most were hungry, so food did the trick. Mr Boo Radley, being a total rebel, resisted until we cornered him in the loo and stroked him until he relaxed enough to be picked up. Well. Well. Guess we did have that one lovely hour.
So, onto this weekend away. Suddenly, my nerves at leaving them to someone else for the weekend don't seem so unfounded. But as life's not going to live itself, I had to plunge into it sooner or later. I took a deep breath and asked my good friend and former CAT, GreTay, to come stay at ours for the weekend. It was kitten-sitting time! I woke up ridiculously early on the Saturday to sort out the flat and prepare for departure--partly to tidy, partly to de-embarrass the flat. What? Don't care what anyone says, EVERYONE has slightly awkward stuff lying around, be it photos from high school, trashy lit, or nerdy box sets. Of course, I probably gave the game away by leaving my to-do list with '3. De-embarrass flat' out on the dining table. Will have to ask GreTay if she was fooled at all by the slick awesomeness of our joint.
In all this kerfuffle, I ran out of time to write this manual-cum-opus of kitten rearing and resigned myself to writing an epic email to GreTay on the train. What would have been helpful was bringing along my mobile phone. Yes, that would have helped. Might even have kept my anxiety levels down. Alas. Luckily, I was able to activate an emergency phone tree of CATS using Mr Findingmoxie's phone. Crisis averted, I settled down to typing away furiously with my thumbs. On a tiny keypad. It took me over an hour to write GreTay the instructions and advice that she'd need to get through 30 hours with the kittens.
At last, I was determined to enjoy my weekend and the first of my birthday celebrations. Surely, the promise of home-made birthday cake would sluice out any niggling worry about how my little angels were getting on. After the 4th time I asked Mr Findingmoxie if he'd had any texts or emails from GreTay, he gave me full custody of his phone, suggesting that I might settle any worries with a quick text home. He was right--although, let's keep that between ourselves, eh?--and GreTay reported that she wasn't locked out of our flat and the kittens had eaten their lunch. PHEW.
Conclusion: I missed the kittens something fierce, y'all. And I struggled not to talk about them incessantly all weekend long. On the plus side, GreTay is seriously an amazing kitten-sitter and shamed me by leaving our flat cleaner than I left it for her. Also, I spoke to the Animal Care Supervisor at the CHAT about their little short-stops and she reckons the excitement was too much for them and that we're rushing them by letting them out so early. They need more routine apparently. Noted. Definitely noted.
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