Three and a half weeks ago we saw him for the first time—a filthy, scrawny tuxedo kitten wandering the neighborhood alone. We tried to catch him with love and food, and when that didn’t work and a kid from down the street guaranteed that she could catch him if we gave her a towel, we took her up on the offer.
Thirty minutes later, we had a new baby.
We named him Toby. Toby Toe Beans, Tobes, Toblerone. He’s a super sweetie pie who purrs in seconds when you snuggle him into your chest.
The next morning we took him to the vet who confirmed his scrawniness but verified that he was relatively healthy and would be fine soon with a good home. He took his first shots like a champ.
His current room is our shower stall, complete with food, water, bed, and a small foil pan for a litter box. We quarantined him for five days before introducing him to the family, but we still lock him up in the shower overnight and when we’re both at work. Another week and he should be fine with everyone except my mother’s cat who hates anyone who isn’t my mother.
We learned yesterday to take the shower stool out of the shower, though. We’d left it in for a hiding spot, but yesterday morning I woke up to a little baby on my cover. He’d jumped from the stool to the shower caddy to the top of the shower doors, where he knocked nearly everything down but made it safely to the floor. Then he squeezed under the bathroom door, and he was out.
What an adorable little handful.
stalking soft quiet
silly little butt wiggle
pouncy pouncy pounce
In other news, poor little Stanley was neutered today, but he’s doing well. He mostly understands not to jump. I’m sure he’ll be back to his rug-battling ways in no time.
Our new addition.