Good Lord.

My house is a freakin’ racetrack.

I don’t know if I told you, but right after Christmas, I found a kitten in my truck engine. I had a choice to either shoo her out and have her get knocked up in a few months (if she survived), bringing her kittens to my place for refuge, or rescue her and add her to the household. I think you can guess which I chose. She’s slightly cross-eyed, solid black, and full of mischief. Such a sweetie. She’s made several friends already, and NASCAR has NUTHIN’ on these guys. Paws of Thunder, makin’ circles around my sofa. Criminy. Squared, even.

She also follows me like a puppy, but she’s not alone. The rest of her “siblings” are just as bad, and I’m not sure if it’s because they love me or if they’re holding out hope for a few bites of chow. It’s like I’m Britney Spears. Every time I move, a passel of cats goes with me. I go to pee, three of them want petting. Go to the kitchen, and it’s like I’m pantyless in a cab.

ROCKSTARRRRR!!

Cyndi calls them the “Catzarazzi.”  From their vantage point on the floor, they could get some truly frightening shots if they only had thumbs. Thank God for that little evolutionary oversight. 

Ivy’s cutest habit, though, is one her big sister Lily had, too: trying to nurse on one of my moles (I know, TMI. Get over it. It COULD be MUCH worse.) I have one teeny one on my shoulder that catches her eye EVERY. TIME. and she can’t resist. If I had a dollar for every time I nudged her face away and said, “not a nipple,” I could fill my gas tank. Twice. She’ll even pat my shirt when it’s covered up, ‘cuz she KNOWS it’s supposed to be there. 

This morning I woke up to a muffled little “meep” on my bed. I looked down at the foot to see Lily lying on Ivy’s head – not biting, just… lying. Subtle. I guess there are still a few friends to be won over, yet.