Pamplemousse & The Great Refusal to Participate in Household Upkeep of 2018

For anyone interested in taking this little critter to your bosom, key notes:

1. We have the stomach capacity of a sparrow. We are somehow naturally disposed to the "six small sensible meals a day" philosophy. Which is mostly notable because the last batch of kittens- and every other cat I've encountered in my life, come to think of it- subscribes more to the "if I could unscrew my head and program a fire hose to pump all the cat food in the continental U.S. directly into my stomach and keep going until I vomit, that'd be great" school of thought.
2. We are dainty and fine-boned. Lissome, even. Long spindly legs. Should probably actually be named Metabolism. I feel his bone density to be on par with that of a Ritz Cracker.
3. We do absolutely nothing around the house to contribute while Audra is at work. Nothing. We cannot even be bothered to finish our dish of Fish Sphincter Surprise* which Audra has kindly left out for us to nosh on throughout the day.
4. We might have a fetish for eye ointment. We get suspiciously into having our lids pried open and oily medicinal lube being slickly applied over the surface of our eyeball.
5. Our pinkeye is all gone. So we're really going to be bent out of shape that 4. is off the table.
6. We enjoy posing in front of stacks of books.
7. We are now able to climb onto the sofa. But be forewarned- if this happens while Audra is asleep she will be jolted awake immediately. Because when we do this, we sound like a buttered ferret scaling a piece of sheet metal.
8. We like to take breaks during snacks to check in with Audra for a moment of cuddling.
9. Napping: This is how we do it:

I exhaled directly into his ear for ten minutes and he slept on soundly. So, really into aggressive white noise.
10.We are the sweetest and gentlest of all kittens so far. In the history of time. We'd be a good choice.
*credit Catherine Shaffner

The Tao of Pamplemousse

Hi. I'm new. I'm currently woozy and half-blind from pink-eye ointment.
But I am obviously very wise:

It is he with leg bones of fish ribs who jumps the highest.
The palest foot pads often lead to the splinteriest of hardwood floors.
The radiator radiates not only warmth, but safe haven.
Imbed yourself in the undercarriage of recliners, for in that way, you imbed yourself in the undercarriage of humanity.
The mostly hairless, partially fabric covered upright cat who feeds you-though her pats incite your purr-should she depart your presence for any span of time-take care to regard her as a complete stranger and panic should she return.
Short-term memory is overrated.
Worthy is the towel that is not the one you were given to sit on.
It is only behind one's refrigerator that one finds one's true destiny.
Assuming the mantle of martyr upon pinning yourself betwixt the radiator and the cold tile wall will not elicit the reaction you expect.

Go in peace. And remember to panic whenever you see Audra.

AVERAGE RIDDANCE

One less cat to step on.

One less towel to boil.

One less poop that looks like tootpaste.

....I don't know the rest of the lyrics, but for those of you with musical theater backgrounds, this should ring true.

I got rid of my children.

I knew this day was coming. I even knew it was today. At least I was going to try for it to be today. If they're two pounds, they're adoptable, all that. You know.

I arrive home this morning from fetching some organic bouquets at a farmer's market at some church from a woman with vocal fry. And from fetching a child-sized Star Trek massage chair from a cul-de-sac in Midlothian with my brother.

I walk into my apartment determined to begin kitten disposal and see Roland snuggling on my shoe. My favorite shoe-- what TASTE he has. Mr. Marianne trots up- I can hear him purring a mile away. Mr. Pearl is nowhere to be seen, but that's par for the course recently and it doesn't matter because I love him. Dust is seated, immobile as always, beneath the coffee table and gazing at me with fathomless and soulful close-set eyes. 

I think, hmm. I really like at least two of these. But this always happens. I just need mental reinforcement. So I message my group of besties on FB. Mr. Paul immediately responds, "You can't take them anywhere. AND THEY POOP." 

My qualms quieted at once by the veracity of his message, I decide to nap and then take the children to the shelter. But, I think, I'll use the bathroom first. To ensure the quality of my nap. I enter the restroom. As usual, all four kittens station themselves on my feet and stare up at me while I take care of business. I pat each head in succession. Deliver some kind words. I get to Roland and realize he is COVERED IN POOP from his right cheek to his right.....other cheek. WHAT HAS BEEN GOING ON? That settles it. I'm done. I snatch him up and run some warm water over him. Scrub him with lavender snowman soap from last Christmas and toss him into the cat carrier. I round up everyone else, trying to remain calm in the face of such a pooptastrophe. We drive to animal control. We are received with glee and everyone is relinquished to the hands of- well, I don't care who takes them as long as there are no more poop immersion exercises in my bathroom.

Having said that- there are EXCELLENT folks standing by to take these creatures home. I'm very excited about that, and look forward to detailed reports. Meanwhile- the promised obits:

1. Roland:

Roland was a good cat. Everyone who met him was impressed by his distinctive eye/jawbrows. Always a poser- he never met a lens he didn't like. Meticulous bather. Floppy sleeper. Occasional poop soaker. Going to live with one Maggie McGrann. Maggie is a wonderful, beautiful, artistic woman who has already given Roland 3 additional last names which are all in French. I'm sure he won't notice. But I do hope she starts him on cigars very soon.
2. Dust:

Dust. A majestic specimen. Aloof and haughty, I never knew if she merely tolerated my cuddles or sought them. Observant. She will be missed. But I've zero doubt of her happy life to come with Marcia Hailey. Marcia snatched Dust out of the shelter less than two hours after I deposited her there. Dust had no real feelings for her brothers, so I do not forsee any issues adjusting to her new digs.
3. Mr. Marianne:

Already dead. Too late for an obit.
4. Mr. Pearl:

Oh, Mr. Pearl. Do not breathe a word of this, but I miss Mr. Pearl. He had the ideal fat feet. Floppy, cross-eyed, malleable. Unaware of most things. I might've loved him. But I take solace in the fact that he and the ghost of Mr. Marianne are slated to go and live with a very charming and zany man I met at a law firm once upon a time named John. I feel very confident about this because I was fond of John years ago when I met him, but then he sent me the list of his potential new names for Mr. Marianne and Mr. Pearl (upon penile discovery) and they include things like "Baal: Lord of Destruction." So I am FULLY on board and eager to see what develops. 

*That said, should Mr. Pearl wreak too much havoc, call me first.
There we have it. Batch complete. 

KITTEN UPDATE: We're SO Close.

It's the final stages. The way I figure it, I'm 4 over-feedings away from having these puffy creeps out of my life forever. Though Mr. Pearl is starting to grow on me. Just in case they're gone tomorrow, I thought I'd go ahead and write what may be the final update in this journey that has been Kitten, Bat, & Penis Development 101.
1. Mr. Pearl:

I. Mean. Just look at him. The fact that he sprouted a penis and that his name sounds eerily similar to Mr. Paul- one of my favorite humans- is making me feel.....attached? Maybe I shouldn't go that far. The second he assaults one of my Care Bears it's OVER. But he's very dear. There's always one kitten per batch that makes me start to wonder...."Does it need me? Will it be sad without me?" It won't. Mr. Pearl probably can't tell me apart from shower curtain, eyes being crossed as they are, and will be equally daffy and content anywhere in the world. But. If Mr. Pearl begins demonstrating problematic behavior, I'm happy to take over.
2. Mr. Marianne:

Still a bat. Potentially Satan. Is somehow the heaviest kitten. Which is surprising given the fact that he's balding from the eyebrows up. Secretly the softest. Occasionally hears voices. I watched him stand on a chair yesterday for three minutes having panicked reactions to absolutely nothing.
3. Dust:

Photogenic. Indifferent. Immobile. OVER EVERYTHING. An older woman, I think. Does very dramatic sleeping- see below:

That box was my Care Bear coffin. Which is a whole other story, but suffice to say, IT IS NO LONGER MINE FOR ANY USE. Dust loves sleeping in this box. In the first photo, she's pretending to be dead for dramatic effect, and in the bottom one, she's FAST ASLEEP and so determined to be in that box that her eyelid has been pinned open for 10 minutes and she doesn't care. So we'll have to have that eyeball removed.
4. Roland:

POSES for me. Hits it; holds it. He is photographed here upon his favorite rug with a 2 lb. weight I found in my room which I've been using to weigh the kittens. Sleeps most of the time. Is very excited to meet his new mother, Maggie McGrann.
So that's that. Perhaps. If they keep spinning around here like blenders on roids it may take longer than I'm expecting for them to get up to 2 pounds. In that case, another photo shoot may occur. If not, obituaries will be posted on this blog and in lieu of flowers, please send power washers.
                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                               

Update: NOTHING IS AS IT SEEMS

Pearl has a penis.
I'll give you a second.
Now that you've recovered, I'll explain. I took the little fluff squirts in on Saturday for their "shots." I put this in quotes because I don't know what actually goes one in the back room after they take the cage of kittens away from me. The deal is: the kittens are not allowed their "shots" until they each weigh one pound. When I took them in two weeks ago, they fell short. The animal shelter staff was both shocked and impressed Saturday to discover they were closing in on two.
Don't think for a second that I'm not super into producing chubby baby animals, you animal shelter staff.
But then I asked the question. The question whose answer has rocked the very foundations of all I've been living and believing for the past three weeks- "Are we sure these are three girls and one boy?"
Read on. If you think you can handle the truth.
1. Roland:

When I stated earlier that nothing is as at seems, I didn't mean Roland. Roland remains EXACTLY as he seems. Darling, cuddly, and dim. I grow fonder every day of his matching eye and jawbrows. His eyes aren't going to be blue, it appears, but he makes up for this by devoting hours every day to perfecting the art of balancing regally in silhouette atop the armchair. (He's not nailing it.) He also debuted his meow for the first time this week and it became immediately clear that he's a three-pack-a-day kind of guy. When I first heard it, I thought they had been out of water for too long, for what else could result in that kind of gravelly growl. Nope. Another possibility is that he's been snacking on kitty litter. Eating in bed- he likes to nap in his toilet. I'll keep you posted.

2. Marianne:                                                                                                                                              

HAS A PENIS. Which is not to say I'm changing his name. All beings, shockingly unphotogenic kittens included, deserve the right to their own gender identity. Marianne is pictured above with his favorite power strip. Which he unplugs every night without fail so that I wake up each day to zero functioning electronics. I don't see the attraction. But we do not choose where we will love. Aesthetically, well, see above. But- Marianne's coat could go for millions at Christie's. Jet black with milk chocolate colored circles along the sides. If he ever once were still, I'd spend a lot of time petting him. His sides, anyway. That face is like caressing a speed bump. In the interest of full disclosure, it should be reported that he tried to suck on my earlobe this morning. Wasn't sexy.

3. Pearl:

HAS A PENIS. And has been submitting his new headshot for every production of "Hamlet" he can find. At first I thought it was for "Agnes of God" or something equally dramatic for the ladies. But then came the fateful crotch check. Still cross-eyed; don't let the photo deceive you. Though I've been staring at him a lot and I think there's a chance he only looks cross-eyed due to an overdeveloped right upper inner eyelid. Loves to purr. Part of my agenda is to apply Neosporin to his.....PENIS......in an attempt to dissaude his sister from snacking on it every chance she gets. Only topical ointments in the house right now are mustard and rose-scented cuticle cream, however, and I don't want to make things worse.
4. Dust:

I feel that a lot of the reason Dust always bears this expression is explained by the Triple Penis Surpise. Ever alarmed and immobile, Dust holds her own. Mostly by sitting on shelves her brothers have yet to notice and pretending to be a figurine. Dust is the lone kitten able to navigate the stairs, and so will soon be the lone kitten I send out for coffee.
They're big enough now to make me sneeze, so it's a great thing that I'm only a half pound away from shipping them out. Bubble-wrapped, of course.
Who wants seconds?