Kenny Junior

The other day when Edgar arrived at the veterinary clinic, he found a rather large cardboard box in front of the door. He got out of his truck, pried open the lid, and there sat a kitten. Beside the kitten was a dish filled with dry cat food as well as a bowl of water. And in the other corner was a capped bottle of water, just in case the kitten needed more--though I doubt he'd have been able to figure out how to unscrew the cap and pour it out. I guess the bottle was meant for the well-meaning souls at our clinic to give our adoptee more fluids when he became dry.
Anyway, our vet staff hauled the kitten and its box into the clinic and proceeded to medicate him for a snotty nose and fleas. He was given Fancy Feast and more water from his bottle and then put in a proper kennel in an area of the clinic where he could be entertained by the other clinic cats and where he could watch the goings-on of veterinary work. Later that day Edgar came home and told me someone had dropped off a kitten at the clinic. I was, of course, ecstatic even though the last thing I needed was to care for another animal, but I was a sucker for kittens. This one, Edgar said, was the color of Kenny--that beigey sort of color--like sand. "Buff" would be the proper term.
"Like Kenny?" I said, eager to meet our new addition.
"Yeah, just like Kenny," he said. "The girls have named him Felix."
"BOR-R-RING!"
"Yeah, well, " he admitted.
"He's now named "Kenny Junior," I announced. "This weekend when he's over his cold, I'll bring him up to our place so that he can meet the kittens we rescued from the Philly kill shelter. He's about the same age as they are. He needs someone to play with."
So, that weekend I brought little Kenny Junior up to our farm. He turned out to be a social butterfly, flying right over to one of the other kittens, and going nose-to-nose with him. At dinnertime, he ran over and pushed himself into the middle feline melee that forms when I put wet cat food on their plates. He was gobbling the food right alongside the others.
It's been a week since he has been here. One would never know, other than he is not black or gray, that he wasn't a brother to the four shelter kittens. They play and run over the hay bales as though they had never played before. And maybe he hadn't.
As I write this, I'm also contemplating the best middle name for Kenny Junior because "Junior" just doesn't cut it. I need to find something especially appropriate for his personality, and since he is flying around the place like a little rocket, I'm kind of thinking of a condiment that's spicey. Now old Kenny's middle name is "Mayonnaise," so what might I call kitten Kenny?
Let's see . . .. How 'bout "Kenny Adobo?" Naw, no music in that middle name. I have to be able to sing it, yell it. "Kenny Horseradish Balliet? Kenny Mustard Balliet? Kenny Cayenne Balliet? Kenny Jalapeno Balliet?"
I've got it!!!
"Kenny CHIPOTLE Balliet!"

Li'l Ralphie Revisited

A month has passed since I snatched a tiny orange and white kitten, eyes and nose pasted shut, from the side of a major road. Li'l Ralphie is a survivor: he has endured being thrown out of a car onto a highway; he has conquered a terrible upper respiratory illness and an abscess; and he has found himself a lasting home with us.

Li'l Raphie, named after our old Ralphie who died a couple of months ago, entertains and warms my heart in mysterious ways. The typical kitten, he struts when he's feeling proud; he hides when the tea kettle whistles; he skips sideways in a threatening stance when I sneak up on him. And when he's all worn out from playing, he jumps onto the sofa with me, sprawled out, and drapes himself along the front of my neck. With his two-pound weight on my throat, I have a little trouble swallowing, but it's all right: Li'l Ralphie's is in sound sleep.

Admittedly, I'm a person who thinks too much and too weird thoughts; it's why I write--you know, the old "outlet" thing. But this two-pound, fur-wrapped creature is so puzzling and endearing at the same time. For instance, I watch Li'l Ralphie skipping along the carpet in a prelude to an attack upon his catnip spider. He springs then wrestles it into submission, and I marvel at the ferocious creation packed within those two pounds. And then my imagination takes over, and strange things begin to happen.

Two pounds of fur and wonder. Two pounds composed of guts, a little brain, bones, tendons and ligaments to make the bones and muscles work, a pancreas, liver, stomach, lungs--all put together so ingeniously as to allow this creature to jump, stalk, leap, twist in the air, and, in all ways, thrive. It just seems as though there's not enough "stuff" inside the fur-covered skin to allow it to manifest itself as a playful, curious, proud, wild being. And I can hardly fathom, too, how all the organs and whatever else inside him allows him to wrap his arms around my neck and purr his love for me. Such manifestation of what I consider, in many ways, human behavior, all comes out of a body weighing only two pounds. For some reason, I can more easily comprehend a human being mysterious, vain, egoistic, etc., because there's obvious size and capacity to contain the machinery for such feelings. In Li'l Ralphie's case, his being a character with strong personality and loving attributes just seems harder to fathom--yet it's all there--inside that tiny body: at times contentment, ferocity, playfulness, trust of another, very different and, in comparison, very huge body--i.e. mine--that sweeps him off his tiny paws, into the air, and plants sloppy kisses on his nose.

Because this tiny, two-pound creature is capable of reacting, feeling pain, and expressing, in his own way, love for me, and because I always like to share, I have a favor to ask of my followers and anyone else who happens upon this blog. Here it is: Li'l Ralphies exist in animal kill-shelters all over this country. In these facilities in cages stacked high, sit gorgeous two-pound kittens just like Li'l Ralphie waiting for a chance to blossom--skip, leap, purr--have a decent life. They never asked to be born and never did anything wrong to warrant being taken to a shelter to live one or two weeks in a cage before being euthanized. So, as a favor to me, to the Li'l Ralphies in shelters, and to yourself, please go to the website of your local shelter--I beg you. Scroll down the images of the cats and kittens that have never been given a chance to skip, play, be curious, and run and leap through the grass as Li'l Ralphie has. Look into their faces and make the decision to adopt one or even two. And then call, ask about the kitten and commit to adopting him or her. I promise, you won't regret it. In return the kitten will reward you with hours of entertainment--little two or three pound wonders that will make you laugh and feel a warmth of spirit that, in this world, we feel too few times. If you're worried about the commitment, don't. They don't expect much--just a small breakfast and dinner each day and a dry, warm place to sleep. And a litter box would be a good thing. If you give one of these cats a home and basic care, they will repay you hundredfold just as Li'l Ralphie has repaid me.

Adopt a cat or kitten--two kittens, if you can afford it, from your local kill-shelter. Relish the experience of rescuing a creature who really, truly needs you and appreciates you, and then write to me on this blog and share your experiences of your two-pound wonders. Your efforts will not go unnoticed or appreciated, and I promise you will feel more complete, more fine, more satisfied than you have in years.