So instead of the shelter, it was a beeline to the corner pet store.
First question: Boy or girl? Pet-Guy Sherlock lifted up the walking ecosystem that was Cat and deduced: No tackle, therefore girl. (So much for logical reasoning. This, please note, from me who underwrites Science Diet stock-shares by selling legal-logical reasoning. But children I must be frank. With experience you may come to find that very little out there actually makes sense.)
Second question: Name? I decided Lee-Lee. For “Ms. Lilliputia of La-La Land.” “Lilliputia” due to Cat’s tinyness, from Gulliver’s Travels.
La-La? I wince. Don’t recall the rationale. Ridiculous to be looking for rationale in the first place.
For answers to other less-important questions I also relied solely on Pet-Guy (see Net for endless debate about what kind of litter, what kind of box, what kind of food, what kind of toy). Otherwise guided by my own improvisational ideas of green best-practices (pine pellets, no preservatives and as few by-products as feasible, any object that could be mouthed, clawed, and otherwise deconstructed or destroyed with as little landfill-pawprint as possible).
A trip to the vet restored a rough balance to the ecosystem, which made the prospect of welcoming it into the house tolerable if not reassuring – and that, friends, was pretty much that. We were on our own.
Oh well there was that gender thing. One fine day: Tackle! And very cute it was too. Fur-covered! Who knew (the continuing theme of this whole experience).
Oh well plus there was that neutering thing. Over with. The less said, the better.
But I have to say I was proud of my guy for fighting the gas. He went under eventually, but not before taking a strip out of the vet’s arm. Well, I must be frank. I’m proud of that too. No well let me amend that by saying proud tempered with compassion.
Wait! Have I lost my mind totally? Full of compassion! But that’s for the next post.
I knew Bugs was feisty!
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