–Thursday after a meeting I returned to work to find a pack of children at the reception desk with a noisy black and gray kitten. They were passing it around, trying to convince us to take it because they found it and it needed a home. I plucked the tired kitten from the kid who was holding it out, and it mewed hoarsely as I looked at its eyes and ears. I cupped it into a ball in my palms and held it against my neck. It snuggled against me and stopped mewing. Sharp little claws, airy little paw pads. I had to give it back, and I watched the kids jostle it back into a cradled position in the arms of the sibling who had the next kitten-holding turn. I knew their mother was going to let them keep it.
–On Friday, during our drive with the in-laws to see some covered bridges, a half grown cat on the porch of a gift shop let me pet him and rubbed noses with me. He was pale yellow, skinny, and his fur was dry and dusty. I didn’t like the way his flanks pitted in. His limbs were long, and he was at peak awkwardness–gangly, no longer a kitten. I didn’t want to leave him there, on the porch. His fur stayed ruffled from my petting, and I hated that his fur wasn’t shiny and falling back into place.
–At John Wayne’s birthplace Friday, a red and white dog ran up to us. I squatted down and scratched her head; she leaned against me panting, checking out the crowd. Her fur was wiry and dirty but she wore a collar with an electronic device, and she seemed to belong in a nearby yard. After leaning against me for a minute, she trotted away, back to the yard, satisfied.
–This afternoon I went to my co-worker friend’s house, and we went out to the sheep barn to find new baby kittens. They were born three weeks ago (roughly) and need to be handled by people so they will be well-adjusted barn cats. The sheep were loud and parted wildly like a school of muddy, woolly fish as we walked across the pen–the cat had the kittens hidden in a wall. We could hear them mewing between bleats. My co-worker’s husband helped us lift some gate materials that were stacked against the wall, and we could see the kittens clumsily creeping around in the dark. We decided I should climb up and over the muck-covered panels and stand on the shelf with ladders while they moved the boards and things back from the wall. I hoisted myself up, waited while they pulled back the panels. I lowered myself down, cobwebs in my hair, being careful not to step on the kittens. In the tight space, I scooped them up, one by one, while the sheep yelled and watched. One calico, one yellow, two orange with white legs, white bellies, and white noses. Their bellies were fat and tight, their tails pointed. The smallest kitten, the runt, was black and light. I held it against my chest and talked to it, I held it up and peered into the tiny startled face. Blue eyes, fuzzy head.
I noticed the black kitten’s front feet had ridiculously long dew claws, or maybe extra ‘thumbs.’ The thumbs were long, as long as the rest of the toes, and gave the front feet a silly monkey-ish appearance. I squealed something nonsensical about Hemingway’s cats and polydactyls, and we checked the others. The little black one was the only kitten with big foot thumbs.
I put all the kittens back into their nest, then climbed back up to perch against the wall while the gate panels were replaced. Sheep muck in my hair and on my shirt, I climbed back down a bit and jumped to join the others. We walked back through the sheep, who will be shorn tomorrow. I realized the sheep were once the lambs. Outside, I petted the dog and scooped up the big orange tom cat. I listened to his happy grunts. It had been raining, and his damp shedding fur clung to my skin. He was muddy, and had been rubbing his head against the dog’s equally muddy chin.
Love,
black sheeped
