No animals in the house.
No scratching furniture, no chewing things, no cleaning up messes made by the hardly-housebroken.
I grew up with a mother who was pro-animal and anti-having-them-in-the-house. So...when Rundy and I woke at 5:30 in the morning on Black Friday to the yowls of a sickly, half-grown feline sitting on our doorstep, my natural inclination was to take care of the unceremoniously dropped off kitty, but to do it in the great outdoors.
But then it got cold. And I have a tender, weak heart. And Rundy's heart is basically mush.
And so it happens that we now have a cute gray and white kitten who curls up next to our woodstove and chases our shoelaces and climbs into our laps.
And who lives in our house.
Rundy named him Munchkin.
I remember Frisky living in the house once she hit the age of dotage, fleas and all, so I guess Mopsy had her soft spot, too. (Or Dad?)
ReplyDeleteI forgot about Frisky! Somehow I think it must've been Dad's idea, and Mom simply didn't protest. Maybe I'm wrong, though. Maybe her armor's not quite as thick as I thought.
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