When Cuteness Attacks

It's dark and gloomy in the holler today. More rain. Lots and lots of rain. I'm starting to feel kinda moldy and I think I've got mushrooms sprouting in my nooks and crannies.

Do they have a cream for that?

Ya'll remember that sweet, tiny, hungry waif of a kitteh I rescued from the wilderness (and Tiny's probing hands) a couple of weeks ago? Well, once she got a little food in her belly and her strength built up... all hell broke loose.

Terrorism has a new face. With whiskers.

Her favorite hiding place is atop the refrigerator, where she lies waiting behind the ceramic frogs for her next victim. The other night, when Ma was bent over to retrieve herself a Coke from the bottom shelf, she suddenly released a horrific scream, followed by threats of murder as she danced around the kitchen in an attempt to release the now scared shitless kitty from her lower back, who was holding on for dear life.

I may or may not have peed a little with laughter.

I told Ma she should be ashamed of herself, scaring a tiny kitten like that.

The little hairball is fearless, attacking the dogs, who are left bewildered by the whole encounter. They've never lived with a cat who wasn't afraid of them. She does seem to have an unhealthy obsession with Merlin, the cockatiel. We now have water pistols, loaded and ready, distributed around the living room, in an attempt to keep her from turning him into a Happy Meal.

I've become a crack shot, just call me Annie Oakley.

The stupid bird doesn't help matters. If he'd squawk and raise hell when she gets up there, like he does whenever the Amazon gets near him, she'd probably back down.

But no.

He sits with his little head cocked sideways and jabbers away to her, like he's found a new best friend.

She unties my shoes when I'm getting ready for work in the morning, will walk right up to the Amazon and bite her, for no apparent reason, will wrap all fours around your ankle as you try to walk through the house and drags plastic shopping bags from one room to the other like a Cheetah, returning home with her kill. She holds them in her teeth as she climbs up in to my desk chair, where she perches regally atop the bag, looking out over the carpet as if it were the Serengeti.

And you can forget about having paper towels, Kleenex or toilet paper anywhere that isn't locked up. I came home yesterday and found the living room floor covered in a sea of fluffy, white shredded paper. In the center sat a tiny kitteh, with a look of, "Yeah.. I did it. What are you gonna do about it? Nothing, that's what."

I keep reminding myself that she's only 3 ½ months old. It's the only thing that's kept her alive.


I've got lots of orders to enter today, so I'd better get with the program. Let's rejoice in the Friday-ness that is today.

Ya'll have a good one.

Later Taters!