My eighteen-year-old daughter Fiona came home for Thanksgiving and brought with her three kittens that she had rescued. They are about three months old and unbelievably cute. They are all gray tabbies with varying degrees of white fur. Each one has four white mittens for paws and beautiful hazel eyes. My husband and I have a big orange tabby cat and a coon hound mix. We weren't sure how they would react to the kittens, but I have to say that they were real troopers. When the kitties first came in the house, Mona the dog lay down, as if to say that she was cool. Zach, the orange tabby, hissed a little but soon got used to their rambunctious ways. The kittens were little dickens, but the two older animals took it all in stride.
When they would sleep, the kittens piled all together in one big mass. They loved to be held, and would purr like crazy while cuddling in a willing lap. Their names seemed to suit them well: Harley is kind of an instigator and independent spirit; Bentley is very proper; and Rover is all over the place. Meal time was a feeding frenzy, and they had to be sequestered in Fiona's room to prevent Mona and Zach from eating their food. They have no manners yet and constantly had to be removed by hand from the dining table and kitchen counters. It felt like being a grandparent, just with four-legged grandkids. Fiona drove back to Los Angeles yesterday so we were kittenless last night. This morning, waking up without the kittens there to pester us and without Fiona to hug, felt kind of lonely. Oh well, Christmas is just around the corner, and we'll be able to host Fiona and the kids again.
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