Woah, it's Todd.

See, this is the thing about kittens.

When you bring them home, they both fit in a box with a sterile metal mesh on the front, and they wriggle and squirm and do adorable things in their little kitten gulag for the duration of what's no doubt a long, arduous, Homeric quest for their new home. Then you release them into their new wilderness and expect them to change, but they don't. I've been waiting for Mox and Squig to turn into the oft-reviled archetype of the Cat Asshole ever since they settled in on May 14. Probably against my better judgment, too. Yeah, definitely against my better judgment.

It was clear to me that these two will never be anything less than our adorable furkids this afternoon when I unpacked our new coffeemaker. The old one went kaptuski, not to mention the fact that it's hideously inefficient to brew a cup or two at a time if you're anything like me, a compulsive bastard of the caffeine-and-benzedrine world. So I pulled the whole packaging apparatus out of the box and arranged it as an ornate and elaborate kittygym, hoping that Moxley would find greater amusement in its scratchable and tumbly labyrinth than in the business district of my pyjama pants.

When we first got these guys home I was under the assumption that by now they'd be watching me with disdain, questioning my authority as a human, gnawing on my flesh as I sleep. Jessica Rose told me that a dog will lay down beside you and starve itself if you suddenly and unexpectedly expire; a cat will devour your ass. Call me a blind feline devotee, but I just think that's cool. I wouldn't want these two dead along with me. I've got ambitions for these kittens. A self-contained empire, ruled by a brother and sister with absolutely no patience for the treason of cupboard mice, scattering our garbage and making anarchy of the apartment. No, if I die I want these two perched over my bloated, fetal body, taking sustenance from their former master. Regal, in control, divine. This is my body, kittens. This is my blood. Take, eat, drink.

Anyway, that's not going to happen anytime soon. Squiggle's perched on the windowsill, pawing at the cords for the curtains and trying like hell to make it up to the next ledge. Moxley's hanging out on the TV, constantly eyeing my laptop bag, no doubt convicted in the knowledge that if he can just shimmy up the side of the dangling bag, he'd make it to our X-Files collection. And that, in his skewed kitty logic, is the penultimate step to finally getting in the pantry. It's on the other side of the living room, Mox.

I've blathered enough. Here's some pictures. Love them.

just another day

not too much to report on the kitteny end. moxley's currently playing around with a bead by my feet, and squiggle's just noticed and pounced in. except now she's re-discovered her food.


yesterday was fun. we were home with the kittens all day. and we cleaned the house so they have more room to tumble around, and we set up our new little table beside the stove, in which their food is now located. all sheltered from the kicking feet of rompy kittens. yes, that's right. gone are the days when we'd come home to find kitten kibble all over the floor, kittens looking up all innocent and confused as to how their delicious crunchies were no longer edible because they weren't where they were supposed to be. and no, of course they couldn't eat them off the floor. what do we think they are? mere dogs? pathetic floor-scavenging creatures? that was, until we would try to clean it up and suddenly there would be kittens all up ins, eating and dragging and playing with the kibbles, right from our hands back into the middle of the living room floor.

ahh, life with kittens. waking up at 6, 7, 2-minutes-till-the-alarm-at-8, to purring kittens who want petting and attention and to curl up. but mostly to lie down until you're almost asleep, and then to get back up and walk on your face and lick at you with their adorable, scratchy, painful little tongues and purr louder and get all over you and your dreams. and one to curl up, sleepy and purring and adorable and (finally) peaceful, until the other one wants to curl up too, but the first doesn't allow that. no, sir. this is my curl up human, he says, i bite you now. and the other kitten protests and a fight begins and dear-god-can-i-just-get-2-more-minutes.

i swear, if there's a terrible twos for kittens, it's the 3 month mark.

however, they are still the adorables. no doubt. and who wouldn't rather wake up to a purring, loving kitten than a dude on the radio talking about bullshit? i love my kitteny goodness.

oh yeah, happy canada day.