On Saturday, Josh and I went to our neighbor’s house to sell her some popcorn. He got two orders, and we left with a bonus:
That’s Wicket. Or maybe Foster. We haven’t decided yet. I DID decide, the day we got him, to give him a bath. He was covered in poop. It happens when you’re struggling to stay alive in a big ol’ barn.
I didn’t want to name him. After all, you NEVER name an animal you’re going to eat or give away. I intended to give this little guy away. I just wanted to hang onto him for a few days, make sure he lived, and then pass him on to his forever home.
Sharp Claws (one of Josh’s suggestions) is only about two weeks old. His eyes are wide open (they start opening around 10 days), but he doesn’t have teeth yet. He’s still nursing. But he cleans up well.
Most of the time, we keep him in a little kitty kennel, so he’s safe and warm and can’t get into trouble. He sleeps most of the time, so it’s no biggie. But then he wakes up…
and wants to explore…
And I can’t harden myself against him. I’ve done it for others. I’ve rescued other kitties. Sent them to no-kill shelters, no problems. But who can say no to a kitty who is no bigger than a burger?
Maybe we’ll call him Angus.