One Batch of Kittens

I suspect someone has secretly sewn catnip into the floorboards beneath the window to the right of my couch. I have never in my life met four individuals more aggressively determined to get into one particular spot in my life.
I have houseguests. There are four newborn kittens living in my bathroom. Which is as messy as it sounds. The most inconveniencing thing so far has been my being forced to hack my Family Size Cap'n Crunch Crunchberries box all to bits to craft a whole new litter box for the little fiends. Super glue even got involved.
Anyway- I often think it will be a good idea to raise a batch of kittens. I'm wrong 101% of the time. But for those of you who find the little monsters endearing -despite the fact that they continue to poop- and have expressed interest in learning more about them, I have compiled the following bios for Gross, Stop That, What The Hell Even Is That, and Dump Truck- AKA Pearl, Marianne, Roland, and Dust.
Pearl:

Pearl is suspected to be a tiny gray grizzly bear, but I'll need a few more weeks to know for sure. Pearl is thusly named because Adam Dorland appreciates the beauty of cats or something and tends to give them attractive and regal names as opposed to more appropriate monikers like Gross. Which is where my instincts lie. Pearl spent the entirety of yesterday in my bathroom for reasons which remain unclear, despite my speaking very clearly and making her aware of the fact that she was allowed to come into the den. Pearl is a twin, but identifiable because she has a gap between her eyes the size of a silver dollar, which is notable when your entire body is only the size of a peach. Aesthetically puffy and pleasing; eyes of blue. Takes a damn half hour to towel dry after baths. Luscious locks and all that. Not too sure of intelligence as yet, but a brilliantly talented cuddler.
Marianne:

Marianne is thusly named because I just played a character named Marianne and Maggie Roop (who directed me in that play) happened to be over at my apartment while the name game was going on. I should have prefaced all this by saying that when I picked up the cat carrier full of neediness from Richmond Animal Control, the lady behind the desk told me she'd temporarily named them all after trees. But then, you know, you get them home and realize instantly that they aren't stationary, or toothless, or pleasant- or really anything to do with trees. Hence the re-naming. Marianne- we suspect- may actually be a tiny full grown cat who just happened to fall in with a litter of abandoned kittens. She sits to the side of the rest, trying her very best to nap amid the turmoil. The above photo is from just such a time. She was deep in sleep, feet tidily tucked beneath her like a normal human cat, when suddenly her sister started a rousing round of Nip the Nearest Genital! She's patient, has a tiny white patch on her belly, and in certain sunlight one can see mahogany stripes swirling down her back. I also lost her for an hour this morning when I stepped out for a moment to hide my fauxlar bear rug. But I found her. Reclining against the internet router.
Roland:

Roland, thusly named because there was another character in that play I just did who was male. This kitten is the only male in the batch. And you can tell. I'm never ever one to cater to gender stereotypes- since I could talk I gave my mother hell each Sunday morning when she gamely tried to get me into tights and a beautiful dress because WHY? WHY SHOULD I WEAR TIGHTS? WHO SAID? But that's probably an unpleasant memory and tomorrow's Mother's Day, and I love my mother dearly and would just like to say that now I love tights. But only if they're thick and warm and stop just above my nipples. All that to say- I've heard from many people that having a baby boy is a whole different ballgame from having a baby girl, and when I poked my head into the bathroom on the morning of This Living Kitten Nightmare Day 2 and saw the three girls wound into a softly purring ball and Roland staggering around covered in what appeared to be hummus or some sort of navy bean puree (neither of which he'd had access to), I thought there might be something to that particular stereotype. Overall, Roland is sweet, very wobbly, and has a black speck on his pink nose which might be a freckle and might be fossilized food, but I can't tell because it doesn't come off with warm water and gentle scrubbing. And that's about all the force I'm prepared to use on such a baby. Next week I'll break out the Brillo Steel Wool and then WE'LL SEE, ROLAND, WE'LL SEE!
Dust:

Dust. So named because- well, just look at it. I'm still not sure if there's a fourth kitten or if a high wind came through under my radiator. Dust is very sweet and stares at me unceasingly. Which is disconcerting. I don't need you to watch me walk to the bathroom, thanks. I do like Dust the best. I even let her sleep with me one night. I can tell I like her best because I didn't smother her. More than that though, I can tell I like her because when she pooped on the couch, not only did I not throw her out the window, I BLAMED MYSELF for not putting her back in the room with the litter box in time. I've gone soft.
So that's what's going on over here. They are receiving repeated prolonged and aggressive exposure to the dust buster, and may at this point think it's their mother. I've come to admire the sheen Lysol disinfecting spray can bring to most any surface when vigorously applied. I've been forced to relocate all my cereal boxes into the den to form a protective wall in front of my Bookcase of Important Items. Once they scale that wall though, it's out the window and back to Richmond Animal Control they go.
P.S.- Richmond Animal Control is where you can go to adopt the little devils in a few more weeks, if you're interested. They even will have had all their shots. Which they will deserve.