I came to the conclusion yesterday while the foster kitties were out running around and making Mister Boogers and Sugarbutt hiss hysterically, that I can handle six cats running around the house all the time. But ten? No. Ten is TOO MANY. Especially when you’re trying to spend the morning making dinner for the next couple of nights, and cats are gathered around you, begging for just one little piece of chicken, lady!
O’Malley (who Fred is already calling “George”) is far and away the friendliest of the foster kitties. He’ll follow you around, howl up at you, and rub against your legs. They’re all cute, but Fred is most taken with George.
“Do you want to trade in Spot, or Miz Poo?” Fred asked yesterday.
“Neither.”
“Well, we can’t have SEVEN cats!”
Right. Because six is perfectly normal, but SEVEN would be lunacy.
Christina does her flying nun impression.
O’Malley in mid-complaint.
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Previously
2005: “Why, yes, we are. We ARE bad.”