Meet the new kitten (tentatively) named Scarlett.
She has this name because she is cute, deceptively tiny and dainty, yet very-curvey-sometimes-from-certain-angles-a-bit-on-da-chubba-side. Like certain starlets who are on my husband’s fantasy list of people he’s allowed to pursue if hell freezes over and gives him the opportunity.
The kitten’s also tentatively-named Scarlett (with the runner-up name of Pandora) because for about 36 hours Oliver and I were very worried that we’d not only adopted a teen-aged kitten from the country, but that we’d adopted a slightly slutty teen-aged kitten from the country who’d already graduated to rolling around in hay bales with no good types who’ll never amount to anything.
This worry began when we’d already gotten her all the way home and ensconced in the bathroom, and away from Fergus, until we could get her to a vet to get checked out. Oliver’s parents, also making their way home from Austria, stopped over in Nberg and came over to see the little thing. His mother picked her up, rubbed her buddha-belly and asked if we weren’t sure that she wasn’t pregnant instead of full of worms – which is what we’d assumed.
We both looked at each other with ‘Oh…SHIT’ clearly in our eyes. No we had not really considered that. But who would? She’s so tiny, so very dainty and above all still nothing more than an INFANT dammit! But wait…counting back…we remembered that we’d been told she’s first made her appearance on the farm in June, and so was probably born in May, making her (counting on fingers)….between 8-9 months old.
Ahem. Old enough. Uh oh.
All of a sudden that chubby belly looked ominous. Talking to a friend later that night, she helpfully chimed in with a story about someone she knew who bought a 6 month-old kitten from a breeder that turned out to be pregnant too.
Crap. Two cats we could handle, but a whole passel of baby cats running around the apartment? I tried to imagine explaining that to my landlord. I knew I wouldn’t even have believed me. “Papa don’t Preach” made more than a few rounds in my head that night as I tried to figure out how I would best go about finding homes for kittens in a few months.
So with some trepidation, I zipped her into Fergus’s super-cool travel bag and walked her to the vet, who informed me that she was most probably not pregnant, but instead very wormy and probably also just a bit fat from all the food that her foster parents had been feeding her since finding her as a scrawny little scrap of a thing a few months ago.
The vet did go on to say that a bloated belly could be a sign of cat HIV and all sorts of other diseases you can’t rule out for kittens that come from questionable circumstances (read = all except pedigreed cats from breeders). I tried not to let that intimidate me too much. Fergus is immunized against just about everything and she’ll remain locked in luxury on heated bathroom floors with a bunch of his toys until her test results come back. I’m confident that reports will all be fine and we’ll be able to introduce them to each other sometime early next week.
Until then, every time Oliver goes in there with a newspaper, he’ll have a cute little audience.
(*for you Google Image surfers who came here lookin’ for kitten cuteness – and according to my stats there are a lot of you – click here for the image source. Thanks to funnycatsite.com)