Muggins here

I need to confess something. I know you'll roll your eyes, tut, point, laugh jeeringly, but I shall tell you anyway. With a face that reads: Stupid but Defiant.


When Scooter was still just the fostered-until-rehomeable kitten, there had been another scrap of a wild kitten caged in the same foster-carer's outhouse, a sweet little ginger called Evan. I hardened my heart when I spotted him, and took the black kitten only, as my first-ever foster case. You know the rest. Evan was quickly re-homed, and is thriving, happy, and tame. The black kitten stayed with me, morphed into Scooter, and is thriving, happy, and thinks humans must be avoided at all costs unless they are offering food or under the duvet wriggling their toes for him to pounce on.


Two weeks later, Evan's ginger brother was also captured in the woods, and since then has been living with Karen the foster carer. Those two additional weeks of living wild have made him much harder to socialise, jeopardising his chances of successful rehoming. He has remained very fearful of physical contact, and puts up a violent struggle when handled, but seems happy living in a house full of cats and dogs. 


Today Karen rang me, somewhat overwrought and tearful, asking if I could help. She has recently been inundated with rescued neglected cats - a mother and her two youngsters, with another brood imminent. There has been little time to spend with the young ginger, and she wondered if I would take over his care and socialisation till he was ready for re-homing. 


And I said yes.


Of course I did.


I'm saying nothing either about fostering or keeping-for-ever; I know I'm not to be trusted in such matters. I know I said I wouldn't want another feral kitten, because they were just too much work. I know I said three cats were enough. 


He'll be moving in after his boy-operation on December 7th, and we'll see how things go.  At best, he'll be a playmate for Scooter, and free Millie up from this often-unwelcome task. At worst, I tell myself, I'll have two silly little cats who flee under the furniture and avoid physical contact with humans... 


(Actually, the Lovely Son says it could be a lot worse than that, and reminds me about the old easily-washed calico curtains that were all I could use in the house during my years of having seven cats; territorial spraying was endemic then. And the stair carpet was clawed into tatters. Somehow, I'd forgotten all that.)


There will be pictures; there will be updates. It will be nice to have a ginger cat in the house again. I miss my old Kevin and the way his fur could light up a room:

But I'm starting a new mantra: 


Four Is Enough.... 


Four Is Enough... 


Four Is Enough...