Queen of the May

It's hot and my calves are on fire and I'm only halfway through my evening walk when I stumble across her playing in a drainage ditch in the park where I walk, a tiny and bedraggled ball of fluff who immediately climbs out when I see her and gives me a welcome squeak.  She's charcoal colored with bright blue eyes and a heart shaped face.

Oh, no, I tell her at once, Don't even think about it.

She looks up at me and squeaks again - a truly pitiful little sound - and I shake my head.  Out of the question, I say firmly as she winds her way around my ankles, a familiar (but endearingly effective) ploy that kittens have perfected through the ages.  You don't understand, I say as I reach down and pick her up for a closer look, It would be impossible and I just can't......surely you live around here somewhere.....oh, don't do that....as she snuggles into the space between my shoulder and neck and begins to purr up a storm.  And just like that, it's all over.

She can't be more than 5 or 6 weeks old and she rides easily, holding onto the fabric of my tee shirt and nuzzling quite happily.  We get to the front door and I can already hear the dogs.

Take a deep breath, I tell her, This may not be pretty.

The door swings open to an avalanche of animals and she digs in, arches her little back and gives a ferocious hiss - there is one stunning moment of shocked silence - then the world turns to clamor and chaos and my quiet "oh, shit" is drowned out in the cacophony.

First things first - a bath in the kitchen sink - followed by towel drying and a few passes with the hair dryer, she's so small that it doesn't take much, then a bowl of water and a dish of food.  While she eats, each bite punctuated by a small squeak, I round up the family for a heart-to-heart.

You, I tell Smudge, far and away the most vocally resistant to this unexpected new arrival, You were living in a tree at the Duck Pond and eating off the ground.  I could've left you there but you needed a home.  And you, Murray, had been left in a school parking lot.  If it wasn't for me, you still might be there.  Zackary, you were a stray and I took you in.  Muggs, you were dodging traffic in downtown and scrounging food from a filthy alley.  If it wasn't for me, you'd be road kill.

There's a squeak from the counter and all four resentful heads turn in that direction.  The kitten is grooming her whiskers and looking quite Queen of the May.

Pay attention!  I snap at my four felines, I expect some civility and tolerance and empathy here.  And if you can't do that, then just keep your distance and deal with it.

The kitten, snack sized but determined, makes her way down off the counter and gives them all a smirk.

And you, I tell her firmly, show a little respect for your elders.

And you three, I turn to the dogs, mind your manners.  She isn't a pull toy or a wind up doll or a salt lick.  Be gentle and be nice.

All three give me their best injured and innocent looks - as if butter wouldn't melt in their mouths - but the truth is that I don't trust a single one as far as I can throw them.

Good, I say, I'm glad we had this little talk.  Remember, civility, tolerance and empathy.  This is not a democracy, you are not members of Congress and I personally don't negotiate with terrorists.

The new kitten settles in my lap, yawns mightily for one so small and falls asleep.  For the moment, peace prevails.