So, in case you missed it, we have three kittens now. We’ve been going back and forth about the name for the new, littlest one. We think she was the runt of the litter, but somehow, next to Tiger Bubba, it’s hard not to look itty bitty. But, what she lacks in size she makes up with unbridled moxy and just plain meanness. She runs at the other two and bites their butts. She came away one day with a mouth full of Tibby’s beautiful calico fur. She jumps on them and chases them through the house, over the couch, and onto the table, over the chairs and into bedrooms.
And, when she’s done terrorizing them, she takes on anything that moves. She has jumped up onto my pantlegs, my bathrobe, and one very unfortunate time for both of us, my bare leg. I can no longer knit in her presence because she either tears it up or she cuddles up on top of it (she is the epitome of the old poem my mother used to sing to me about the little girl with the curl: when she is good she is very very good, and when she is bad she is horrid!). My hands and arms are all scratched up from her “playing” especially when I am sleeping.
All this to say that even though everyone else calls the new cat Sofie, I’ve decided that her name is really “Damn it!” and her full name is “Damn-it-you-little-shit.” And then, when she is sleepy and cuddly and cute she is, of course, “the sweetest little kitten in the whole wide world.”
Fortunate or not, she has clawed and cuddled her way into our hearts. She’s a little shit, but she’s all mine. Damn it.