2004-05-18 - 1:56 p.m.
Miss Kitty’s got kitties—four of them, which is really a bit much. She had them a few days ago, birthing them on top of a box containing winter wear in my closet under cover of hanging shirts and jackets. Undoubtedly she would like to be there still, judging by the way she keeps trying to sneak back into the house. But I have moved the whole shebang down to the barn, where they rest comfortably inside an old feed stall on a bed of pine shavings enclosed by a box. And there they shall stay—for now.
I held them today, sexing them, checking them out with the intention of picking one out. I did, finally, decide to start with the male. But when I began walking off with him, he began to wail: “Don’t kill me, please don’t kill me, please, please, please, PLEASE DON”T KILL MEEEEE!!!!”
It was pathetic, really. Miss Kitty, who to that point had been getting a drink at the overflow, came running in alarm and began following me, as did Beau. I felt like a murderer, which was entirely appropriate because murder was exactly what I had in mind. I thought I would get the shovel, put the kitten down, slice its head off with the blade and bury it in one seamless act of dispassion. But I could not do it—not in front of Miss Kitty and Beau; not to the crying accompaniment of that helpless, newborn kitten.
Now I feel evil for even considering it. And yet, I keep hearing in the deep interior of my head: “The cat’s in the bag; the bag’s in the river.” I know, really, I could never take them down to the river and throw them all in. But I also know if I don’t do something, I’ll have cats overrunning the place.
At this point I think I’ll just let them be for now. When they are weaned, I’ll take them into town, set them in a box, and print up a sign saying: FREE KITTENS!
I’ll either do that, or haul them to the vet and have them all fixed.
Miss Kitty included.
