Ninja Kitten

She comes skittering across the kitchen floor like the energizer bunny on speed, chasing some invisible plaything - a stray thought, perhaps - and by the time she sees the tuxedo cat in the doorway, forward momentum has taken control and stopping is out of the question.  The collision is inevitable and painfully vocal, the tuxedo cat delivers two well aimed (but harmless) thwacks! and then runs.  The kitten looks surprised but isn't deterred - she simply changes course and begins a sideways, arched back stalk of the small brown dog who instantly turns tail and runs - and then the little dachshund steps in with her nose-to-tail-over-caffeinated small body  enthusiastically wiggling in several directions all at once.  She snatches the kitten, falls on her, and much to the kitten's dismay, commences a full scale, full body bath/massage.  The kitten is not pleased with this but at 2 pounds, four and a half ounces, has little recourse.  She squeaks and struggles (this only intensifies the little dachshund's efforts) and finally, for my own peace of mind, I intervene with the promise of breakfast and separate them.  This is what it's like to live in a Roadrunner cartoon, I think to myself.

Later that day it's time for her first vet visit.  I keep expecting her to protest the carrier or the car ride but instead she sits calmly and is quiet as a mouse, not a single, solitary sound all the way there or back.  She doesn't cry or cringe or scratch to get out and once in the exam room, despite the noise of humans and dogs and other kittens, she curls up on my shoulder and almost serenely watches things unfold.  The vet checks her eyes, her ears, her heart, gives her an injection and a syringe of wormer medication and takes a fecal sample (this brings one mew, very plaintive and surprisingly loud) but otherwise it's smooth as silk and I slip her back into the carrier easily.  She sits with her six toed paws crossed, alert and interested but still and quite untroubled by the whole affair all the way home.  I am dazed by this new found placid-ness and can't remember even once taking a cat or kitten to the vet without arriving done in by a constant stream of feline chatter and protest.  I look closely to make sure she's not simply terrified, so frozen with fear that she's paralyzed - but all I see is a confident and quiet kitten, bright eyed and completely at ease with her surroundings.  Who are you and what have you done with Suki, I want to ask.

Once back on familiar territory, we navigate through the supper hour - a frantic and deafening few minutes - and then, one by one, settle in for the night.   The dogs trail me from room to room while the grown cats all find various places to curl up and sleep and the kitten prowls for whatever trouble she can find.  Eventually, even she finds a small, safe place and takes her rest but the night is young and I fear mischief will raise its perky head long before morning.

Given time, the little ninja kitten will be an elegant, regal, possibly even dignified cat.  She will find and take her place in our little circus and this I can already tell - she will not be timid or hesitant or uncertain about it.
Despite the frayed nerves and seriously tried patience that her kittenhood is causing me, I will miss it, I think to myself.  Then there is a thud, a crash, a grown up cat wail followed by a decidedly unhappy hiss and I hear the sound of little feet in flight.

I just won't miss it tonight.