Also, I promise to start writing about things not related to rescuing dying kittens again. Very soon. Like, probably tomorrow.

Yesterday afternoon, Vera moved out.

Midge capital-h-hated her (even their briefest interaction was tense and awful) and though Hal largely ignored her, his inability to get over this illness (back to the vet yesterday; Dr. Jim doesn’t suspect anything sinister) had all the earmarks of stress and well, my mother-in-law met Vera on Saturday and fell, as one does, in love with the little ball of fluff.

“I can’t think of a better home,” I said to the Dork Lord, as much as to myself. “I mean, if anyone’s going to treat her like a tiny, furry person, your mom will.”

“She will treat her like a princess.”

It was true. And really the best you can hope for, your sweet little rescue going to someone who will love it to the same ridiculous degree you would yourself. Plus, we’ll still get to see her. But do you know how many times I’ve stopped myself from checking in on her in the last 20 hours? THIS MANY.

(Actual number of times I have checked in on her = THIS MANY – 2. I have been so restrained.)

At this moment, Little Gray Kitten (whom we’re tentatively calling Vera B. after her umbilical cord attachment to a certain Vera Bradley tote), is probably lying very, very still because her belly is too fat to move. This, Miss B, is what we refer to as a First World Problem. Welcome to the fray.

To those of you who made donations to help with vet costs, I cannot thank you enough. You’ve made such a nice dent in that emergency vet bill, it’s almost like it never happened. So, thank you – from the bottom of my heart and the strained circumference of Vera B’s belly.

Now that the antibiotic is working and she is eating her weight in smelly cat food every oh, six minutes, I’m working on getting her past the Terrified of Everything phase. Holy cow, she’s timid. To get her used to being handled, I wrap her in a towel and carry her around the house, doing ordinary things, having ordinary loud conversations, and all the while nuzzling her (my god, she’s soft) so she knows that members of the two-legged set are not so horrible. She’s already at the point she nuzzles me back – headbutts me, really – and purrs and cuddles and oh! did you hear that sound? RUN AND HIDE. Last night, I spent 30 minutes trying to coax her out of the interior of the office sleeper sofa. Somehow during our lessons on how to pounce things, she managed to find a wee hole that allowed her to wiggle into the frame of the couch arm. And she was not about to come out. She’d lick stinky food off my fingers and swat at me through the tear in the fabric, as though it were some terrific new game – the game that would never end – and it dawned on me that one, single, solitary pound of kitten can be a gigantic pain in the tush.

This kitten will not be the gettin’ fur on the furniture kind. She will be too busy hiding under it.

Over the weekend, our previous kitten rescue effort, the freakishly fearless Midge, discovered she had the ability to jump. Like, leap small buildings in a single bound jump. In my head, I hear an ACME cartoon boing! every time I see her launch herself on to some new lofty vertical surface. It’s pretty amusing to watch. Well, to most of us. The only one who is not amused in the least by her kangaroo rat skillz is Hal, because now he has exactly zero options about sharing his special gimpy tooth food, his well worn bed and his cool, damp sink. He’s least happy about the sink sharing and makes it no secret that he would prefer she discover someplace else to find totally irresistible.

And Midge, well, she makes it no secret that she doesn’t care what he’d prefer.

Sometimes, I look at that mug and I just want to EAT her. I’m guessing Hal feels similarly inclined.

Twenty-four hours came and went and Little Gray Kitten showed no signs of improvement. The vet at the emergency clinic said at that point, our options were in-hospital care (which I simply cannot afford) or putting the animal down. She didn’t mince words. By the time the Dork Lord got home from the office, I was in pieces. Eyes red and swollen, snot running down my upper lip, head aching. Ending a life because I don’t have enough money to save it is, undeniably, one of the cruelest realities there is. All the while, the kitten is crying for its mother and that I have failed to make it well means I have only succeeded in making its last hours lonely and frightening. The Dork Lord held me while I cried.

“What about taking him to Dr. Jim?”

There’s a reason our vet is Dallas’ favorite vet year after year. He’s wise. I mean, he offers really practical solutions to situations that other vets will only offer to solve with costly procedures. He probably fixes a lot of stuff around the house with duct tape and Legos like my dad does. If only he were available in the evenings when stupid pet emergencies tend to take place.

So, this morning, I snatched up the kitten (who has been living in my Vera Bradley tote and fuh-reaks out if you offer to swap it out for a bed of towels and blankets) and headed to Dr. Jim. He did not see our options as so limited. He gave Little Gray Kitten a cortisone shot and and sent me away with the following shopping list:

A steam humidifier
Vicks Vaporizer liquid
Little Noses decongestant
The smelliest, nastiest cheapest kitten food out there. Something fishy.

My homework, he said, was to get Little Gray Kitten to eat. On her own (this syringe business was not working). Problem was, he said, if she can’t smell it, she can’t eat it. Wait, did you catch that? Despite everyone at the EAC calling Little Gray Kitten “he,” she’s most definitely a she.

“We don’t charge much for the visit,” Dr. Jim said. “But that sex change operation’s gonna cost you.”

And right now she is living in our bathroom, with two humidifiers and the world’s nastiest smelling seafood kitten chow, which she has, most miraculously, begun to eat all by herself.

As for me, once it’s quitting time, I’m taking a long, long nap. Maybe into next week. I have one hell of an empathy hangover.

Oh, Universe. This is not what I had in mind by “cuddling them off to the vet.”

Last night, I reached into the flower bed and pulled out the little gray kitten, who was too weak to put up much of a fight. Then I swabbed the infection out of his eyes, gently washed the crust off his nose and while his mama sat at my feet questioning my authority, bottle fed him some kitten formula. When I put him down next to her on the lawn a few minutes later, he took two steps and gave up. And that’s when we went to the vet because I couldn’t stand the idea of that tiny thing dying out there in the heat.

My husband would tell me that if he did, that’s how natural selection works. Well, not in my damn bushes, it doesn’t. This is why the Visa card was invented, I suspect, to interfere with Mother Nature when she’s PMSing.

Unlike Midge, this little one is terrified of me. Which, naturally, makes syringe-feeding difficult. Part of me is so heartbroken to hear him cry for his mama, but what can I do? I can’t give him antibiotics twice a day if I give him back to her. I can’t even be sure the antibiotics are going to work. The vet at the emergency animal clinic said we’ll know by tonight if he’s going to make it.

Last night, I slept on the floor of the office where he is quarantined, afraid that something might happen. This morning, though, he appears to have more energy and I’m packing up my laptop to go work from home so the ritual force feedings can begin in earnest.

Once he’s well, he’s going to need a home. I would sincerely appreciate any leads on a good, stable kitten home.

About two weeks ago now, I wondered aloud as to why we hadn’t seen Cass in a while (Midge’s Feral Mama —> Mama Cat —> Mama Cass —> Cass) and grumbled over how dedicated she’d been to thwarting my plan to get her baby makin’ parts shut down. I saw her that very afternoon, though, and realized why we had not seen her. Because she was off having babies.

The cutest damn babies there ever were (next to Midge herself, naturally, and Hal, though I never knew him as a wee one), I think, now live in the bushes outside of our kitchen window. Two of them – one gray and one torty, just like Midge. We were in the middle of Hal’s illness (which after vet visit number four seems to be healing, finally) and so I was already feeling like a horrible failure in the Keeping Kitties Happy and Healthy Department when I realized I’d totally tanked in my resolve to keep Mama Cass un-knocked up. It broke my heart. But it also made me more determined than ever.

Every night and every morning since, I have sat out there by those bushes, being eaten alive by biting insects, patiently talking to Mama Cass while I plied her with food and cool water and cooing songs about fuzzy kittens and life-saving veterinary care.

Three nights ago, she rewarded me by laying down within arms reach and calling her kittens out from hiding. My heart might actually have stopped beating for a moment while out they crept and zoom! right back into the bushes. Ma, there’s a lady out there! But Ma was having none of it and issued a direct order to get on with the suckling while the suckling was good. And so they suckled while I watched and heaved heavy sighs.

Last night, I petted Mama Cass. I mean, really petted. For weeks now, I’ve been sneaking in a touch or two. A tap on the nose, a brush of her side as she scooted by. But last night, I got her good. Against her better judgment, at first, but what could she do with such tempting vittles placed strategically at my side? She ate and I petted.

And then this morning, I petted again – only this time, even after the food had been gobbled up. I scratched her arched back and she shocked us both by purring and tilting up her chin for a rub. And she called her babies, who pranced around in me in wide circle, chasing Mama’s tail and tackling leaves.

I’m going to hold one of those babies soon. And they are going to love it. Once they’re weaned, I am going to cuddle them all off to the vet and find them happy homes like the one Midge has where her humans only freak out a little bit when shower curtains are climbed and eyeglasses are chewed.

And screw the humane cat trap thing. By the time we’re done with this, Mama Cass is going to let me pick her up. Because I’ve decided that is how it’s going to be. And I will sit outside every morning and every night and get West Nile Virus if I have to because if you think a feral cat is stubborn, you should meet her resident cat lady.

“It’s jigawatt, with a j.”

“It’s spelled with a g. Giga. You know, for like, a billion. A billion watts.”

“But Doc Brown says jiga. They wouldn’t have gotten it wrong in the movie – he says it too many times. And he’s a scientist.”

“It’s likely both.”

“It’s not both.”

“Say this word out loud: g-i-a-n-t.”

“Giant.”

“With a g?”

“….”

“  ?  ”

“Do you lay awake at night and practice having arguments about this shit?”

“Yes. Yes, I do.”

Five months ago, our apartment was burglarized while we were attending a funeral. Rough estimates of the loss came in at just over seven thousand dollars.

Yesterday at 4:20PM, ADT calls to say that the alarm had been triggered at our house. A fault has been detected in Zone 5 (utility room door) and they are aware that the pass code has been entered.

“That’s impossible,” I say, feeling my stomach drop. “My husband and I are the only ones with codes and we’re both at work.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m absolutely sure.”

“It says it was entered by remote.”

My remote, I know, is tucked in my handbag. My husband sometimes leaves his on the counter.

“God.”

“Would you like me to call the police?”

“Yes, please. Please call the police.”

By now, I’m scrambling. Closing documents, exiting programs. It all takes so long, I grab my bag and head for the door.

“My house is being broken into,” I tell a coworker without stopping.

I’m moving quickly down the hall of the office. Soon I’m jogging. And then running. I pass through the lobby in a full sprint. People are staring. I don’t care. I’m sprinting down the street. It’s four blocks to the lot where my car is parked. Waiting for the pedestrian signal is nauseating. The phone rings the moment I’m in the car.

“ADT says the police won’t come because we aren’t registered with the City of Dallas.”

“But we are. I filled out the paperwork. I paid. Remember? That guy Dave said he’d file it.”

“He didn’t do it.”

The traffic leaving downtown is bumper to bumper. My head is throbbing. My chest is tight.

“It will be too late,” I say, and it’s easy to hear how close I am to tears.

“I’ll call the police myself,” he says. But in the end, they won’t come. We’re not on the premises.

My phone stops recognizing its SIM card and I’m left, in quiet, inching through traffic, imagining what they’ve taken this time. Have the animals been smart enough to stay inside?  God, please let them stay inside. Are the laptops hidden? Sometimes we forget. I’m mentally bargaining with the burglars to leave the bedding this time.

I’m screaming inside my head by the time I make the final turn into our neighborhood. I don’t have to imagine what it’s like to have everything taken. I know. And I can’t go through it again. I think briefly about where we will stay. I already know I can’t live in a house that’s been ransacked and feel safe. Or even sleep.

I park the car and race up the steps. My husand stands in the middle of the room, unbuttoning his collar, hissing into his speaker phone. He is enraged.

There’s no break in. The alarm never sounded. Whoever installed our alarm assigned the same identification code to another home. I stand there in the 90-degree heat of the living room and wait for my heart to stop racing. I try to reclaim those last thirty minutes, undo the panic, bring it back to “everything is fine” but it just makes me more fidgety and angry.

“I’m going to go buy some more fans,” I say, and then leave, knowing that whatever fury is boiling in me will be translated verbatim to ADT by my husband who is simply better at being furious. I would just cry.

Our AC went out.

And contrary to my normally frugal nature, I don’t care if it costs every penny I (and my future children) will ever make to get it working again, because that is how much I would pay for it not to be 85 degrees in my house at 11:00 at night.

We learned fairly quickly that I would have made a very cranky pioneer.

Yesterday was my 33rd birthday and although it started out rather tenuously (oh, hi cat barf), it picked up some steam with cards and lunch with a friend  and dinner with my husband and video birthday greetings from the cutest sibling spawn there ever was.

Happy Birthday from Penny, age 1 year, 9 months

Happy Birthday from Owen, age 2 years, 9 months

And since my birthday was marked erroneously on the office calendar, we’re celebrating today, too. A birthday extension! Which, aside from increased cake consumption and revelry, might give my own parents some extra time to, you know, actually acknowledge it. Here’s to Thirty-three! The year of managed expectations!