I'm not a cat person.
To be fair, I'm not really a pet person.
But I do have to admit that this little kitten, which Chris brought home last week, is slightly cute.
As long as it doesn't show me its little pointed fangs.
Then it's just scary.
I've already had a chat with him. It went something like, "You're cute now, but we're not going to like each other in the near future. You're going to turn into an attitude with legs, and I don't like claw marks on my arms. But don't feel bad. I raised chickens as a little girl, and I only thought they were cute as baby chicks. Once they started morphing into teenagers with mottled feathers, they lost me too. So at least you're not alone."
He didn't seem to notice, namely because he was too busy attacking his own tail like I hadn't just fed him an entire saucer of milk.
This little guy came home too, and while he may not stay with us long (one of the guys at the dairy is partial to him so we'll take him back), he's a little goober too.
We named him Ponce de Leon because, well, (a) we just got back from St. Augustine, Florida, where everything is Ponce de Leon all the time, and (b) he loves to explore.
Ok, I take that back. He loves to explore the shade. If there's sun, consider him done for.
The guys at the dairy say his name is actually King Henry I who was, according to Wikipedia, "short," "stocky," and "barrel-chested." Well, they had him up until that last one.
It's a regular menagerie around here.
A skunk somewhere out in the pasture who lets us know about once a week that he's alive and well.
Which is why we're signing off--dogs, cats, cows, and all--and settling in for a supper of cheeseburger salad.
Chris, Adriane and the rest of the zoo creatures, living out where the wild things are