10.16.02
Celeste's kittens, and Celeste as well, are still living in our foyer. No longer needed as a wetnurse, she still is a mother to three adorable kittens, and the cold nights out side are their enemy.
Her kittens are finally old enough to get out of their box, and ramble around a little bit on their own, still a little wobbly on their feet, but fluffy and sweet enough to not care about it. They're also a noisy bunch of little peepy chirpers. I call the peepiest little one, the black runt of the litter, Cricket. Tiny, black, chirpy, and annoying.
As such, we like to get the cute little buggers out of their tiny room, and play with them in the living room. They aren't swift enough to get very far on their own stumbly appendages, and we're not too concerned if they are.
However, their mother gets around pretty damned fast. And she has gotten it into her head that the kittens need to live somewhere in my bedroom, behind the racks of clothing hiding the boxes of my stuff that are too temperature sensitive or susceptible to cootification* to be stored in the barn.
So, whenever all are free to roam, I have to shut the door to my bedroom. That is, unless I want to spend a fair amount of time scampering after felines, plucking kittens out from behind my bed before they can be spirited away to a place I can't easily access.
And did I mention that Celeste smells like ass? Literally. She apparently farts so often that the continuously provided stench has seeped into the surrounding fur, thoroughly impregnating it. It isn't too bad except when she turns around and stands up, or spreads her legs to clean herself.
Blech.
What's in your head?