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Well, this is an interesting morning. I was woken at seven by piteous mews, which is about an hour earlier than I wanted to (or should have) gotten up. And now we’re experiencing kitty’s first thunderstorm. The closer thunder is bothering him, but not so much the rumbles from further off. Sigh. He has just leaped into my lap and is playing with my Star of David necklace. I moved it. No matter. There’s my entire lap to attack. There go my sweatpants. And now, my hair.

Yes, I am one giant cat toy at the moment. In fact, my entire office has turned into a cat toy. I am rediscovering the joys of moving things out of reach so that Tig can’t hurt himself or make a mess.

Gracie sulks downstairs most of the time. She came into bed at some point last night. I wonder if she’s going to do that after I let the kitten out of my office. He may have to stay here for more than a week, though. Half of my stairs are simple steps of wood with no backs. There’s a six-foot drop if you’re small enough to fit in between the steps, and Tig is small enough—and reckless enough—to fall through. I have to figure out how to make sure he doesn’t. Cat or no cat, he’d hurt himself falling from that height. Sarah suggested some kind of mesh along the railing, but that still leaves about ten steps. She also said, “Meryl, he’s a cat.” Yes, I know, but I get extremely paranoid about kittens. I did this when Tig and Gracie were young, too. I kept them in the bathroom for the first few days while I was at work, and I got it into my head that I’d left the toilet seat up and they were going to leap into it and drown. I tried to get a friend to go check on them, and he said, “Meryl, do you realize how crazy you sound?” He was right. He had a Maine Coon cat, too. Very friendly and laid back. So was Tommy, come to think of it.

Work is going to be interesting for the next few weeks. I may wind up going to the office out of sheer desperation.

Can’t help it.

I see tufts of hair between his toes. I think he’s a Maine Coon mix.

He’s playing by himself now, which means I can get some breakfast. I’m going to keep him in the office for a week, per Wendy’s suggestion. It may be longer, though. My stairs are half-open on the bottom, and I worry he’ll fall through going up or down. He may have to be kept upstairs until I’m comfortable he’s big enough to navigate the stairs.

My Gazelle Glider is now a cat toy.

Tig 3.0 has very similar markings to Tig 2. But he has two dark spots on the bottoms of his hind paws, and pure white whiskers. Tig 2 had some black whiskers.

He’s a snugglekitty.

This is a happy house again. Well, except for Gracie. But she’ll get used to him. It’s only been a few hours.

I’ll have kitty movies up after my batteries recharge. He’s too cute not to share.

The good news is Tig slept through the night, thus allowing me to do the same. The bad new is yes, I’m allergic to my new cat. He makes me itch. I’m washing my hands a lot and waiting for my body to kick in whatever the anti-allergens are called. The worst news is he likes to lick me, and the saliva is where the allergens are. Oh, well. It’s hard to be annoyed about getting kitty kisses.

Boy, can he eat. I’m going to try not to overfeed this one. (Shyeah, that’ll work.) He is also a major slob when he eats. I have to get a large placemat for him today.

I bought him one of those spring-toys, a puffy ball at the end of a four-inch spring. He likes it. He also likes the four sponge balls I bought him. And he plays with literally everything in my office, including my toes. He can jump and climb like crazy. I have to completely re-think the way my apartment is set up. Eight-week old kittens don’t understand “No.”

He has a little chirrup that he makes when he’s concerned or lonely. And a very, very loud meow when he wants attention. He misses his brothers and sisters, poor thing. I wish I could have taken two of them. But I can’t. Three’s too many for me, and Gracie would be odd cat out. Not fair to her.

He likes to attack my feet. With or without socks on.

He is so far uninterested in the desk and computer.

And he has made me smile. And laugh. And laugh. And laugh.

Time to go play with my new kitten. He’s bored.

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.

Going to pick up an orange male Maine Coon kitten. Eight weeks old. Back in about four hours with pictures.

Since the government has seen fit to give me back $600 of my own money, the topic came up in conversation yesterday. I was wondering what I was going to spend it on. A gift, I decided. Something that was completely impractical. I told Sarah I’d probably buy that iPod I’ve been talking about buying for months. Good idea, she concurred.

But then I got another thought. Maybe I should use the refund to buy an orange Maine Coon kitten. It’s not so easy finding another Tig at the various shelters. But if I order one from the factory, as it were, it’s a lot easier.

Which just goes to show you. I swore for years that I would never, ever pay $500 for a kitten. Too much. Maine Coons can’t be that special.

Wrong on all counts. (They’re way more than $500 now, anyway.)

I do believe that I may just buy myself a new Tig. And this one will come with a pedigree. A big, dumb goofball with papers. How cool is that?

Anyway, I sent out a few emails. We shall see what we shall see. Turns out there are a few catteries right here in the Richmond area, or within an hour’s drive.

I’m also open to suggestions from readers. But the cat must be male, and he must be orange, and he must be at least a Maine Coon mix. I’ve been checking Petfinder. Maine Coon Rescue up in MD doesn’t want to adopt out to me because they insist on checking out the home first, and it’s a two-hour drive. So even though I’m up in NorVA all the time, that won’t help. I should probably ask Ellen for assistance.

But I want my new Tig. It’s too quiet in this apartment. I’m willing to buy a purebred if that’s what it takes.