I am an equal opportunity animal person. As a kid I would torture my parents by bringing every and any stray I could find in my neighborhood. Kittens, toads, mice, even a half dead baby rabbit that had been run over by a lawnmower. Currently I have two dogs, my eleven year old basset hound and a four or five year old boxer.
I’ve wanted to add a cat to my little gang for a while, but my husband is not a cat person, so he always said no. My logical next step was to stop asking him and just get one. Which I did. This weekend. The kitten is from a litter of my sister’s cat, who got accidentally knocked up (she can’t be fixed for health reasons and she escaped the house while in heat, that little minx). River, as I have named her, was the only surviving kitty from the litter. After only having her in my house for a day, I can understand why. Girl is feisty, a fighter. I adore her.
So does my son, thankfully. All day long all I heard was, “Mommy, we go play wit riber?” I melted just about every time.
For the time being, little River has taken up residence in my writing room/closet until she gets big enough that I can start introducing her to the dogs. Until then, she has become my little mascot. After I put my son to sleep I go hang out with her and write until I can’t keep my eyes open. She helps keep me awake by dutifully attacking my feet with vicious claws and teeth. She also walks across the keyboard as much as possible, letting me know that her nonsense is way better than whatever I was planning to write. She also bites my computer, sits next to it and stares at me in judgement, and then eventually curls up on my shoulder for a nap attack.
So, without further ado, I present River Song Ayers (yes, I named my cat after a Doctor Who character, bite me if you don’t like it).