No… I’m not pregnant. My addiction to sushi dipped in chocolate frozen yogurt is something else entirely. 🙂

We took Finian to the vet this morning to get something on his back looked at. (When I finally got him out from under the bed on Thursday, I noticed that there was an avacado pit-sized growth where his vaccinations were done 2 weeks ago.) The doctor drained part of it and gave us some antibiotics and prednisone to try and get it to unswell. Finn was a very good boy and didn’t complain once. (We also got him in his cage in only two tries and without blood being drawn. Boo yah!) The vet also only charged us for the meds because the office visit was related to the vaccines — $15 instead of $60. Double boo yah!

Anyway… the “addition” might be a little female tabby patch kitten. She’s being fostered by one of their clients and she walked over to me on the counter and started nuzzling my hands and loving me up. I have really wanted a tabby patch female, so I was really fighting the urge to adopt her then and there. Cindy (our favorite vet tech and my boys’ foster mommy) told me that if I wanted to think about it, she’d put me on the list. Unlike our boys, we’d have to pay a $50 donation for this one, which is more than worth it since she’s had most of her shots (which would probably be $100 alone) and has been tested for leukemia.

I’m hoping our boys would treat her well if we got her. She would be named Freya. (“Freya” was a Norse goddess who rode in a sleigh pulled by black cats. I also just love the name.)

(Cindy, by the way, is the vet tech who fostered my little darlings.)

On Saturday, we went to Wal-Mart to get a cat crate. After having to go back and exchange it because the one we got had no side latches, we tested the cats in it. This resulted in two very angry pusses who fled, one to the underside of the bed and the other to his litterbox where he rolled around. Knowing that his next stop was the bed, Jon and I bathed the offending beast. (Hint: wear long sleeves — the cat latches on to them and not you. This is also Cullen who bends in ways that I’m not sure are even natural to cats.) After setting my little lemur (who used some *VERY* un-Christian language) in his womb to un-punk his fur, I set the carriers aside until this morning.

Well… I was setting towels and cat pads in the carriers this morning around 9:30 when I discovered that the door on the new crate was malfunctioning. Knowing that this was not a good thing, Jon and I raced to Wal-Mart where the clerk said, “I’m just going to give you your money back in case you can’t find anything you like.” Good plan because we couldn’t find anything in the pet section. Off we sped to the Wal-Mart in Heath… only to be turned around because they were doing road work in two places. Gnashing our teeth mightily because it was already 10 and the vet appointment was at 10:30 (in the town next door which is about 15 minutes by freeway), we took the freeway to Petmart and found a good carrier for $10 more than we paid at Wal-Mart. (Well… you do get what you pay for.) We got home at 10:15 and I called the vet to let them know that we’d be late.

OK… next task: get the cats crated! We got Cullen into his crate with very little trouble (translation: he went in willingly on the second try) and then settled on Finian. Finian (who is normally my sweet and mellow loverboy) put up a valiant fight. (The results of which can be seen in the picture below of my arm AFTER it was cleaned and the vet techs flushed it out with alcohol.) It took FIVE tries to get him in, with him slashing me on the third try and head-butting his cage door open on the fourth try as I was latching it. With my arm dripping blood, we carried the boys to the car and sped to the vet.

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For Jon’s birthday, one of the presents my wonderful mother-in-law gave him was K is for Kitten so that we could start reading to our boys. As a good mommy, I immortalized the first reading session in pictures.

Finian was the only one that would sit still and read with me. In this picture, I’m stroking his chin as an incentive to stay.

Cullen looking at the book while I’m getting his brother settled

Me and my flufferpie posing after finishing the book. He is wrapped in his tail, which is his favorite “sit alongside” position.

Our next book: Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats by T.S. Eliot

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Today, Finian decided to help with the laundry.

Finian helping to flatten the pile of t-shirts

Finian cleaning my shirt… and his plumey tail

Finian resting after his hard work. He is an ummmm… helpful cat!

I know that I really should post more about my felines (and that I should post more pics — if you’re not on my list for kitty pictures and want to be, leave me a note in the comments), so here’s “the state of the felines”.

The boys are growing. It is so crazy to look at pictures of them nursing on Jon’s stuffed fox and then to look at them now that they are the same size as Jon’s stuffed fox. Finian is my office assistant. He is too big to fit in either of my desk drawers, but he *loves* the camping chair in my study. I’ll be working on the computer and I’ll hear a mew from the doorway or my feet and I’ll just pat the chair. He will come bounding up and leap gracefully on to it and allow himself to be petted while he purrs lustily and lashes his beautiful, plumey tail. He will then occasionally attack my right hand, causing me to have to type lefthanded (and make instant message conversations a little more difficult); but he always cleans my wounds when done. He is a wonderful stressball and is content with me reaching down and petting him occasionally.

Cullen is still the smaller of the two but is an adorable cat. He is a total Daddy’s Boy and will not let Jon leave his sight if Jon is at the vicarage. His stripes and yin yang are still bold and his Mary mark (the little M that tabbies have on their heads) looks like someone painted it with henna. He is still the more skittish of the two but he is a definite attention monger and loves to “explore” my study and bat hangars out of my closet. He keeps me company at night and is very good at attacking anything that moves on the bed. He considers himself to be a mighty cougar (or puma) and enjoys bringing his “prey” (a pair of ski socks that he has completely unrolled or a skein of yarn that he has claimed from my crocheting basket) onto the bed and kills it before my eyes. Currently, he is being a homicidal, jungle cat in the forest of paper bags we have scattered in the living room. He still loves to “help” us make the bed by pouncing on lumps. He is a very useful cat.

My boys don’t think I have enough peach and orange in my wardrobe and have set out to rectify this. Any ideas on getting cat fur off of clothes quickly?

This is my parents’ scaredy cat Trail Kitty. My dad took this portrait a few days ago. Isn’t he a handsome beast?

I have my flufferpie on my lap right now. Our congregational council president is ripping apart our shower to fix it, and is hammering in order to do it. My black shirt is now peach with cat fur — I swear that there is enough fur on here for a new cat. I will also be sneezing up cat fur for the remainder of the night.

CATS!