What Have We Here

I get to Scott's hours after I'd hoped.  Damn rambling parents. I really don't fault them. It was the idiotic person chairing the meeting that let the bleeding heartness of it all bleed all over everything. I might have been more forgiving if there had been better food. A baby quiche or some crab dip would have worked wonders. A cocktail would have, too.

Scott usually greets me at the door, but tonight he does not. And of course it is the night that I am dragging my suitcase, cat gear, my briefcase, and a bag of groceries.  I am moderately annoyed as I struggle to get in the door and the dogs, which now number 5, try to escape.  If anyone had been attempting to sleep through my arrival, all bets are off.

A little peeved, I haul my armloads of stuff into Scott's room even more perplexed that he seems to be awake, yet reclining on the bed in spite of my (highly anticipated) arrival.

And then I realize why.

Sitting on his bare chest is the tiniest little ball of gray fuzz I have ever seen.  Scott puts his finger to his lips to suggest I whisper (instead of squeal about the extreme cuteness I am witnessing).  I quietly put my things down and come sit by Scott on the bed. The fuzzball stirs, and suddenly I am face to face with the biggest roundest green eyes I have ever seen. And then the fuzzball sprouts legs and it's little gray body is toddling unsteadily toward me on little white feet. I am overwhelmed with adoration.

I pick up my little fur ball and hold it close. It is no more than half a pound and could fit in a tea cup. I want to squeeze it in the worst way. 

Scott gets up. He wants to show me where he's been keeping the little dust bunny.  We walk into the kitchen and up on the table is the giant dog crate. On the table! He's placed a cardboard box in the crate with a company sweatshirt folded up for a bed. There is a tiny saucer of water and a tiny plate of food. And a makeshift kitty litter fashioned from the 8 x 8 brownie pan. (Note to self, replace brownie pan immediately and bury current one in recycling bin.)

It is so cute that Scott has made the little kitty condo.  He's so proud of himself and he's taken such care to make her safe and comfortable and not be too accessible to the dogs.  It warms my heart. 

I am feeling so much less annoyed now - I ask Scott to come over under the kitchen light to look at kitty's little private parts. I want to know what I should call this little bundle of adorableness so I can begin to squeal his or her name a million times a day like a loon. 

He takes her little tiny body in his massive hands and walks with me to the light above the sink.  It is the brightest. We could perform surgery quite competently under this light. He deftly flips kitty onto her back (and remarkably she does not object) and pulls back the tail.  Exclamation mark?  Maybe. Question mark is more like it. I have no idea whether I am holding Gidget or Ringo.