I keep changing the title, but nothing fits better.

Saturday, a kitten about six weeks old showed up in our middle 40, which is largely bog right now. He was drenched through, which showed his outlines to be exceeding spare. Wondering who he belonged to, we picked him up and questioned him (to which he replied with a tired but loud buzzing) and saw that he was covered in kitty-snot and runny-eyed gumminess. His weight was very like that of a passing thought. This was a kitten that had spent many nights out, and would not likely last another one.

So we brought him in, washed his face, fed him and warmed him and housed him. We did NOT name him; to name a cat is to accept a lifelong attachment that would be foolish for us. We have 4 cats, 2 dogs (maybe; Mouse is still walkabout), and thirty birds. Worse, we live in Burr country, and this was a long-haired kitten. Keeping him would require that we shave him at least twice a year.

So, no keeping this little nameless fluff. He slept in all three of our laps, turnabout.

Today the no-kill shelter agreed to accept him for placement with a good home. They agreed to accept him in two weeks.

Two more weeks of being followed around the house by our nameless guest, purred at, snuggled against and on and occasionally licked. Then we’ll just take him down to the shelter and wish him well, and never look back.


His name is Nicodemus. For him, Hell hath been harrowed, indeed.

Crossposted from Epinepherine & Sophistry