Since both of the last two cat acquisitions have been The Husband’s doing, and especially since both were rather surprising and generally unexpected, there’s been a running joke around here about The Husband’s ability to attract stray cats willy nilly and recreationally choosing to accost our happy little home with them. All in good fun we titter about his timing or chuckle about the unlikely circumstances of his captures, all the while comforted by the knowledge that this is, of course, merely a coincidence and not actually evidence of an alarming trend.
Despite which, when I got the call that The Husband, through no fault of his own, was, at that very moment, holding a tiny bucket containing a tinier kitten which had been plucked just moments before from the interstate, I will admit I had a moment. Even knowing that it couldn’t possibly be true, I had to at least address the niggling thought that he was somehow doing this on purpose. Fighting back phrases like, “What’s wrong with you?” and “How could this happen?” or even “You’re shitting me!” I mustered something more along the lines of “Oh?” and waited for the blanks to be filled in. There had been a traffic jam. The cars were all nearly stopped. He looked in his rearview and saw it run out. He got out to look for it. So did some other people. Someone caught it. Now it’s in his bucket. Alrighty then and off to the vet it went.
Later, when The Husband returned home, crisis for the moment under control, we sat down to clarify the details.
“How did you end up with the kitten?”
“I just said I’d take it.”
“And then what?”
“The guy handed it to me.”
“Did you say anything to him?”
“I didn’t say anything to him, but I wasn’t really thinking and when he handed me the kitten I looked at it and I think I said something like, ‘Oh God, you’re number eleven.’”
“Oh, um, what did the guy say?”
“Nothing. He just kind of looked at me funny. I wonder what he thought.”
“He probably thought you were making a stew.”
Well, as it turns out, we decided not to make the stew after all (yet) and instead the kitten, which the vet determined to be no older than about six weeks, was deposited safely with my mother who, much to the chagrin of her half dozen other cats has fallen head over heels for his little bobble-headed ways, but who has not yet provided a picture for me to spread amongst the internets. For now, I suppose I shall appease you all with…
Your baby of Zen!