>> Wednesday, March 23, 2011
I slowly opened the envelope as I smilingly watched the young kitten
playing with Mr. Bean. My cat certainly seemed to be enjoying himself.
I focused on the lined piece of paper. The note seemed to be written
in a child’s hand.
"Hello. This kitten is deaf and we can’t keep it. He’s a boy and has
his first shots. The vet has his cards. Please love him. I hope your cat
likes him. He needs a name. Thank you. A Friend."
Someone knows I have a cat. I wonder why they can’t keep the kitten.
But they can afford to get its’ shots. And deaf?
I picked up the white visitor, and looked at his face. Yup, blue eyes.
I know enough about cats to know that blue-eyed whites are often
deaf. I had had two of them over the years.
“Okay, little one. I’ll call the vet and find out what’s going on.
Meanwhile you might be hungry.”
I carried the kitten into the kitchen and placed him on the tile floor,
where Mr. Bean eats his food. I got a small saucer out of the cupboard
and retrieved a little cat food from the refrigerator. Mr. Bean took an
intense interest in what I was doing. I gave him a spoonful of food as
well, so he wouldn’t feel left out. Yeah, I’m an ol’ softy. The little guy
zoomed in on the dish of food, and Mr. Bean gave him a look, as if
to say, “Mind your manners, son.” I also put down a small dish with
a little milk next to the kitten. After he was through inhaling the catfood,
I showed him where the nearby litter box was located. The side pantry
was the ideal place for the box, as it was out of my way. The kitten
managed to lift himself and his round, full tummy, into the box.
He peed. I clapped. Easy student. Joy in the pantry! Whether that
would be consistent was yet to be seen.
I dialed the telephone number for the vet. After giving my name to
the secretary, the vet himself got on the line. He asked about Mr.
“Mr. Bean is fine, Frank. Do you know anything about a white kitten?”
I could hear his smile on the other end. Frank, the vet that took care
of Mr. Bean, admitted he did. He told me that the kitten was eight weeks
old, and had his shots. He also said something about a “trust fund”
for the animal. On my questioning, I was informed that whatever the
kitten needed was provided for. I just had to tack a name on him.
“Who left him here?” I asked the vet.
“I’m not at liberty to say.”
I could hear him grinning again. After hanging up, and more confused
than when I called, I picked up the mewing kitten, who was rubbing
against my shoe.
“You can’t hear yourself, but you have quite a voice! I might just have a
name for you.”
TO BE CONTINUED