kit happens

So yeah. This happened:

While working at our church’s community garden on Saturday, a homeless friend came up with a tiny, flea-covered kitten in need of a home. He said, hilariously, that he would have liked to keep him himself, but he didn’t want him to be a “hobo kitty.” Of course, I’m a sucker for any and all animals, and I agreed to take him home and de-flea him and find him a family to adopt him. Guess who hasn’t been adopted yet… We’re keeping him on a “trial basis” to see if he can get along with our dogs, or, phrased more accurately, if the dogs can get along with him. So far they’re not allowed in the same room. We’re not naming him til we’re sure we’re keeping him, but we’re enjoying his cuteness and playfulness for now, and referring to him as Tinycat. The dogs, on the other hand, are referring to him as “that dastardly intruder who wants to steal our snacks.”

I wish I’d known her then

Both of my puppygirls. Olive is the black one. I've yet to see a "Baby Bessie" because apparently cow-spotted catahoula mixes with golden eyes are rare.

There are many benefits to adopting an older dog– by they come your way, they can sleep through the night without crying, they’re potty trained, and they have less of a propensity for chewing on your stuff (though lord knows both of my adopted-as-older-dogs have chewed PLENTY of my stuff).  But one major drawback of adopting an older dog is you don’t get to know them as puppies, don’t get to see what they look like when they are small and fuzzy and cuddly wuddly, all chubby bellies and slightly out of control paws.

We adopted our second dog, Olive, what we believe to be a lab/border collie mix, the Christmas before last.  She was less than a year old, and had been found in the woods near my parents’ home by a family friend, so starved they initially thought she was dead.  I don’t know who left her, or if she ran off, or how she ended up in the woods.  I see hints that someone must have been mean to her– the way she is terrified I’m going to hit her with a broom when I sweep the floors, the way she thinks every raised object might be used to strike her, the way she cowers and sometimes pees on herself if I use too forceful of a voice with her. Continue reading “I wish I’d known her then”

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