Not A Pussy

There's a cat in my hair.
But I'm getting ahead of myself. It may not be a cat.
Rewind.
Picture it- Tuesday night. Fourth of July. I'm really living it up- partying hard- watching "Dawson's Creek" Season 4 on Hulu and pounding chocolate milk. Suddenly- a message from a guy I grew up with and hadn't seen in fifteen years. There's an abandoned week-old kitten in his garage. Would I be willing to raise it since its mother apparently couldn't be bothered?
I take a swig and ponder.
Sure, I decide. Raising kittens is always fun and I need something fun right about now. And, you know, it's always a plus to one's self worth every day that a completely blind helpless and dependent creature doesn't die under your care.
I truck out to Wal-Mart after being condescended to by the phone operator at Target when I asked whether or not they carried kitten formula.
Tiny baby bottle- check. Kitten formula- check.
I drive home and bounce on my toes in front of my house waiting for my friend. I'm excited.
He pulls up. Wordless and stone-faced, he pops the trunk of his SUV. I step closer. This seems, for some reason, quite dire. A huge box. Several towels. Brandon slowly lifts and points a foreboding finger. Like the Spirit of Christmas Future aiming Scrooge in the direction of his tombstone.
I squint. Oh dear.
Oh dear.
It's been years since I've seen Brandon, but I had not heard of his apparent mental demise. That's not a kitten in that box. That's a severed, furry thumb.
I paste on a smile and pick the thumb gingerly out of the box. Weightless. Gulp.
"Bye, Brandon!" I trill nervously. He drives away.
I go inside. Place the item in question on the couch.
Poke.....prod.....oh....hmm.
This thumb seems to have four tiny twigs sprouting off its underside with.......four miniscule needles affixed to each one.
Weird. Further inspection.
Two triangular fur flaps cover two tiny holes on the tip of the thumb. Two teensy slice marks frame a rough pink patch. There's one cream colored swatch of hair just where the thumb nail should be.
Well hell. If this were my thumb I'd have amputated it too.
Convinced it's as harmless as it is peculiar, I lift it to my face for a really good look.
"WRAAAAAAAAAAEEEEEEEEEEKKKKKKKKK!!!!"
I drop it. I catch it. My ears ring.
So.....not a thumb, then. Clearly a living creature. Likely an animal of some sort.
I post a photo to the world wide web. I'll need expert opinions. My friends are instantly on the task. Otter? Sloth? Kristen Bell? My brother comes closest, I think, with- binturong. Look it up. If you dare.
Whatever it is, it is furious. You could wring the righteous indignation from this critter like body wash from a loofah. And just what, I think, what do you have to be righteously indignant about? One doesn't simply acquire the ability to be righteously indignant until one has had a few life experiences beyond simply popping out of a vagina-- oh. Well...hmm. On second thought, I grant it its indignation.
I make it a drink. Shaken, not stirred. I noodle around on its face with my pointer finger to try and discover if it has a mouth. Aha! A flap opens with what appears to be a teeny tiny tongue flapping around inside. I insert the bottle.
Suddenly, without warning, all sixteen of the aforementioned miniscule needles sink into the flesh of my hand. Vacuum-caliber sucking noises. This thing is sucking on the bottle so hard its ears are flapping. One flap per suck. Flap, suck, flap, suck.
Then, just as suddenly as it transformed into a ravenous velociraptor, it goes completely limp. Head collapses backward. Milk sprays up and dribbles across its face. Needles retract. Um.
I squeeze it. Still alive. Just comatose.
Clutching the unconscious and unidentified critter in one hand, I wander my apartment looking for something to put it in. I settle on the trash. On the trash can as a bed, that is. I don't usually get fed up with things that quickly.
Night passes. Radio silence from the newest tenant of my wastebasket. Dawn breaks.
"WRAAAAAAAAAAEEEEEEEEEEKKKKKKKKKK!!!!"
And I'm up. I snatch the creature out of the garbage. I'm starting to think it might be a kitten. Kittens are notorious for thinking they know exactly when humans should wake up in the morning and not being a bit afraid to let them know it.
I put it in the sink. Some soap. Warm water. I smirk, smug. Little Mr. Righteous Indignation does not look so tough now that he's dripping wet. More like a pinkie now, aren't we?
I towel it off. Lovingly construct it a house out of an old and charmingly colorful cardboard frozen popsicle box. Generously donate one of my favorite yellow socks I got from my Dad for it to use as a snuggle buddy. Is it grateful? Nope. Further screaming, writhing, twisting-- this cat is like the Seven Dwarves. The lesser known seven- you know: Screamy, Twisty, Scratchy, Climby, Wriggly, Leaky and Opinionated.
But, this'll be fun. It will be adorable watching it learn to walk and having it tumble and frolic around my apartment. Unless it does something surprising. Like turn out to be a Tyrannosaurus.