It started innocuously enough. (Doesn’t it always?)
A friend had a free kitten to give away. We haven’t had cats since the two that came part and parcel with Beloved moved on to that great catnip field in the sky, maybe three and four years ago. But I know Beloved has been pining for one. And, Beloved found (gasp!) mouse poop under the cupboard earlier this week.
Free kitten + need a mouser + Father’s Day weekend? Score! Plus, Tristan has been lobbying relentlessly for a cat lately.
So I called the vet, and found out that free kittens are really not so free after all. Not unless you define “free” as $650 for in the first six months, anyway. (That’s first checkup plus vaccines, plus suggested meds, plus spay or neuter. Yikes!)
So the free kitty didn’t seem like such a great plan after all, and when I tweeted the cost of a free kitty on twitter, @deadsquid was nice enough to mention the Lanark Animal Welfare Society, where you can adopt a cat for $125 all in. And the idea of a young but not kitten-y cat seemed like a pretty good idea too. Young enough to adapt to a house with a dog and three noisy boys, old enough to not be completely insane.
Beloved, still cautious about the idea of leaping into cat ownership again after the loss of Ben and Tiny, thought about it over night, but I was pretty sure we’d be heading down to Smiths Falls within a few days at the latest. And I was right.
We met a lot of cats today; there are currently 97 (!) up for adoption in the shelter. We found ourselves drawn to the orange tabbies, and for a while debated between a female and male. It was a tough call, and I began to wonder if maybe we’d end up with two instead of one, but luckily we’re a little bit crazy but not THAT crazy. I’m not sure if the cat chose the boy or the boy chose the cat, but they both seem pretty happy with the deal.
He’s a 12 week old orange tabby. We’re still working on the name. Percy was an early contender, and I favoured Bruce. By the evening, we’d migrated to Butterscotch, shortened to Scottie, which was cute. Then I slipped and called him Buttercup, and that seems to have stuck. Prince Buttercup, or Peanut Buttercup, depending on who you ask.
It’s adorable now, and downright hilarious when you think 10 years into the future, with a handful of oversized teenage boys calling what I’m sure will be a large and happy but mature orange tabby “Buttercup”.
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