Whiskers on his chinnigan

I was not having a good day. I had an upset stomach because I had eaten too many papayas, and I was mad at my husband about something stupid, so I was sitting at the reference desk staring blankly through my computer, mentally working out how to make ends meet on one income/relocate to Ontario, when one of my library preschoolers walked up and threw a skinny flea-covered kitten at me. “Want a kitten?” 

I have a few rules in life:

1. If someone you trust puts a drink in your hand, drink it (it’s either Christmas or something terrible has happened).

2. If someone puts a baby animal in your hand, take care of it.

3. Buy the good toilet paper and paper towels. 

So yes, I wanted the kitten. Damn it.

Having been manhandled by a 3 year old all his life, the little cat’s defense mechanism was to go completely limp and fall asleep. I wondered if he had been left in a hot car or carried around by the neck, he seemed too lethargic. I drove home with the little guy asleep on my chest. After a few cans of fancy feast and a flea bath, he reanimated into a regular kitten. The kids love him so much. Billy does not. Droopy is figuring out that he gets treats for being tolerant of the little guy.

The kids have named him Finnegan. “He has whiskers on his chinnegan. He pulled them out, but they grew innegan.”

Dafuq

We didn’t need another cat, but maybe I needed him right at that moment.