There were two orange boys in the litter. The first one was afraid of me. The second one gave me kisses and purrs. His name is now Tigger 3.0 (which, of course, will be shortened to Tig). And geez, what a set of lungs on that boy. He has a very, very loud meow, and he used it on the way home a lot. He actually tried to bite his way out of the cat carrier. And I caught a picture of him doing just that.
He’s upstairs in my office, where I am rediscovering how much trouble a kitten can get into. And how everything—everything—is a toy. He’s yowling for me to come back. I didn’t get a chance to eat dinner until past 9 p.m. He yowled, so off I went upstairs, only to discover that an eight-week-old kitten knows the smell of something tasty when he smells it, and I wasn’t about to give him table scraps to start things off wrong, so the chicken and I came back downstairs. He stopped yowling. He may be sleeping.
Gracie is both frightened and annoyed. Can’t tell which is which. Tig 3 is calling me again, though, so here’s another picture—little bugger is already trying to use my books as a scratching post; must get my extra back from Sarah—and I’m off to spend some time with my new kitten. Who I think I’m allergic to, too. Ah, well.
He looks a lot like Tig did when he was a kitten. Wendy says she can’t guarantee that Tig 3.0 is a Maine Coon, but she thinks he is. We shall see what happens.