A long, long time ago (before Pie was born) I had a cat. I found him on my porch and named him Maurice. George said we couldn't keep him, but I could get him medical attention and foster him until we found a home. The vet said he was going to die. Both George and the vet lied because he didn't die and he never left our home.
Maurice was awesome. He hated everyone who wasn't me or my one friend. Actually, I think he just hated George and I made that assumption based on the fact that George and Friend were the only people I (and Maurice by extension) had contact with. He may have loved other people for all I know.
Anyway, when Pie was born, he got insanely jealous. He didn't pee in crib or bite her like a normal cat, instead he waited until I was trying to get her stupid carrier through the door with an armful of grocery bags and disappeared. I was heartbroken.
We posted signs and left food outside and the lady at the pound yelled at me for calling too much. The problem is that people in my neighborhood are irresponsible and let their unaltered cats roam free and screw like, well, cats. Maurice was solid black with no distinguishable markings and looked like any number of the neighborhood strays. And the food drew them in droves. And the pound is too busy with stray dogs to worry much about the cats. Eventually, everyone but me gave up hope.
Despite his deeply rooted dislike of animals, George offered to get me a new cat. Touching as that was, I was still waiting for Maurice to come home.
Two years (and three days) later, he did. He just showed up in all his feline arrogance like nothing ever happened. Everyone was shocked. Aside from a raging case of fleas and one oozing wound, he was no worse for wear. I have no idea what he did for two years, but apparently he took care of himself quite well. Even the vet (the one who told me he was going to die) was impressed.
He stuck around long enough to heal, eat twenty pounds of cat food, and decide he still didn't like Pie. Then, just like before, he bolted. This time, he hasn't come back.
But people in my neighborhood are still irresponsible.
Sometime near the end of June the result of said irresponsibility ended up in the bushes in front of my house. Pie's been asking for a cat and it's not like we don't have enough mouths to feed, so George and I decided if we could catch one, she could keep it. The only problem was that there were two. Oh no!
I ended up catching both.
We told Pie she could choose one, then we'd have to find a home for the other. Pie was having none that and decided we were keeping both cats. George is a sucker who has no problem letting a three year old dictate our household. I'm a sucker who couldn't stand seeing how distressed the cats became when separated for any amount of time. It took forty-five minutes for us to accept we had two kittens.
Pie named them Hiccup and Astrid and decided that when Maurice comes home, we'll change his name to Toothless. I share her optimism that he'll come home, although I have my doubts that a seven year old cat will be very accepting of a name change. She can try. Maybe after all his years of roaming, he's forgotten he has one altogether. The darker one is Hiccup and the lighter one is Astrid. Astrid is actually a boy and Hiccup is a girl, but Pie gets really upset about that, so we don't acknowledge it.
Anyway, they're not that little anymore, but all my newer pictures are on the other computer. They're awesome and healthy and so much fun! I'm really glad we kept them both because not only do they entertain each other, they entertain me. Mostly, they just play and attack each other and do generally amusing cat things, but they get really agitated when it comes to treats. I have to put them in separate rooms for fear of one of them losing an eye. They also hate the dog. Porthos couldn't be any less interested in them. Astrid just runs away whenever she comes near, but Hiccup one puffs up and spits. I knew cats can spit, but I'd never actually seen it happen. And they like me best!
I'm allergic to cats. Which is why I'm sitting in the car, blogging at four in the morning.
In other news, Pie cut off her hair. It looks great, but she's devastated. Cutting off your hair is an awfully silly way to express that you don't want short hair, but then, I don't know that I'll ever understand how Pie's mind works. I have pictures of that too, but I'll save them (along with the full story) for the next time I can't stand being in the house.
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