Wednesday, June 4, 2008
Release the Hound
I'm hoping everyone remembers the kitten in the well house that we found the third week in April...if I was smart and knew how to say "see here" and have the link pop up, that's what would be going on right now. Smart people have tried to teach me. Smart people have failed. Other than keeping my sons here full time to "ghost" for me, I'm afraid you're just going to have to take my word for it...we found a two week old kitten in the well. Mac and I took loving care of her and bottle fed her (every two hours the first two weeks....talk about tired, my own babies weren't that much work). Like all kittens or cats, she was easily litter trained, so at least there were no nappies to change. She grew so attached to me, she would run across the floor when I entered the room and climb up my leg to get to my shoulder. Now that was all well and good when her highness was 4 weeks old, weighed a feather, and no one had put the steel in her claws. Now I need to don chain mail to enter a room. She plays rough, too. She has no siblings to learn how far she can go, therefore she goes as far as she wants. She bites the hand that feeds her. All in play, of course. Like a lot of people I know, she doesn't know her own strength. I was on the phone with Evil Sister the other day and the wee one was fighting with my hand....run jump on the couch, attack my hand, run back down to the floor...repeat...and I said "ow" quite loudly. Evil Sister said, "what happened?" "I think she may have drawn blood," I said. Evil Sister told me to take two fingers and tap her sharply on the forehead. "That's what the mother cat does to correct the kittens," she said knowingly. They had adopted a four week old motherless kitten named GrayC...and believe me, I'll be writing more about that tyr...er, sweet kitty at a future date. So anyway, I take two fingers and tap her sharply on the forehead. As I peeled a pound of fury off my arm, I asked ES "any more smart ideas?" "It didn't work?" she asked, and I swear she didn't believe me. "Not only did it not work, I think I may need stitches!" Even now, as I sit in the office and write this, I can hear the thundering herd that is my sweet baby as she runs from room to room looking for fresh meat. We named her Lady Wellington, isn't that precious? Now, in the mornings when I arise, Mac lays in bed and says in his best Basil Rathbone voice "release the hound!" which means to let the baby come in and jump on the bed and gnaw him till he's bloodied or says "calf roe". So guess what? Her name is now and forever more will be, Hound.