About two weeks ago I got a new kitten. He’s a boy and is about 11 weeks old now. He’s sinewy, scraggly, orange …. and extraordinarily fast. I got him from Sara (Christo’s girlfriend) and I think he’ll be a good addition to our family o’ pirates. Chris had been calling the kitten “Smalls” (as in “you’re killin’ me Smalls” from the movies) for several days before he finally brought him home. I had wanted to name him “Hollywood”, a name I thought would go with “Motown” (my other kitty’s name) but Chris had his heart set on “Smalls” so we compromised and decided to call him “Hollywood Smalls”. Sounds like a mobster or a porn star huh? Somewhere in the second week I developed a tendency to call him “Mort” and I have absolutely no clue why. Maybe Mort is his real name and his nickname is Hollywood Smalls. I dunno’.
For the first week Motown ignored Smalls completely. Now, two weeks later, Mo and Smalls have an agreed upon indoor race track on which they chase each other between the hours of 3am and 4am daily (to my great dismay and often peril). I’ve had to start closing my bedroom door at night to avoid becoming road kill. It’s simply defies science that a grand total of 3 pounds of cat can make so much noise.
Teddy the dog is adjusting but he still does his best to simply blend into the carpeting when either cat enters the room. The collage of puncture wounds and scratches on my legs make me wish I was beige too and could just blend into the carpet with him.
Oh … and we’ve recently started calling the kitties Motown and Smalltown …
Yo ho ho and a bottle o’ rum
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