So Matthew (long story in and of himself) brings a kitten into my office today. A few weeks ago, I had dispatched someone to retrieve what I believed to be a litter of kittens from a (basically abandoned, at the least a defunct) vehicle at the outskirts of my agency parking lot. They were unable to locate said kittens.
A friend reported having seen Matthew walking around the parking lot, cuddling the kitten and singing to it. In so telling me, she made a loose reference to Of Mice and Men, which was pretty spot on for why the kitten was brought to me and not taken home by Matthew.
Part of the problem is that this kitten is tiny. Tee tiny. Tiny enough I questioned whether I was absolutely positively certain those were his "real" teeth, i.e., not his milk teeth. Tiny enough I have spent the better part of the day, after he ate some softened food I put down and he voraciously tore through, watching for a BM, checking to make sure his belly wasn't distended, and agonizing over the notion of using a warm rag to replicate maternal poo poo assistance.
K is of course completely enamoured with the little tyke. She snuggled him up, working her domestication magic promptly upon her return home this evening. Sitting down to dinner, she proclaimed him, "an absolute sweetheart."
I still have reservations about his age, ability to execute necessary bodily functions, and prognosis for survival, whether here at MisFit Farm or in a parking lot. This evening, however, we had a somewhat positive development after our late evening walk with the dogs.
A: Good news. Bad news. Which do you want first?
K: Good news.
A: The kitten is able to make BMs.
K: Let me guess. The bad news is that he didn't make BMs in the litter box.