Here's why my plans to spend last weekend knitting and catching up on DVRed tv programs didn't pan out. I'm fostering a litter of four kittens for a local animal rescue network. These little guys are about six weeks old, and were found with their feral mother behind a Starbucks. Top left is Mrs. Dash, named for her habit of dashing everywhere she goes. That's Bertie Wooster on the right, Winchester in the middle and Venus sprawled out at the bottom. They're between 1.25 - 1.50 pounds each, so they're old enough to eat for themselves but still a leeetle too young to be allowed full run of the house (hence the kennel). The instant I open the kennel door, they fly out - Mrs. Dash in the lead, of course - and scatter in a flash. Their favorite places to go are down the hall to the bedrooms (renamed the Kittynapolis 500 Speedway) and my knitting corner.
My adult cat, Demsee, is still on the fence as to whether or not she wants to play with them or treat them with icy disdain. The Shepherd mix, Lulu, is fascinated - so much so that we have to be quite careful not to refer to them as "babies" (the word "baby" in this house refers to Lulu's plush toys, which are the same size as these kittens). If you say "baby" to Lulu, she'll pick up a kitten and bring it to you. The kittens have made their disenchantment with this procedure quite well known. The Chihuahua, Gomez, is on the verge of calling PETA because the kits get canned food and he doesn't. (Oh, the injustice!)