One More Entry About New Orleans
Love Is Not Just Babies Sleeping Peacefully

Yes, We Have No Cats

After our sweet little cat Pussle died two years ago, we have been adamant about not having any more pets of any kind.

After all, pets require care. You have to feed them, and get them shots, and groom them, and look after their elimination needs.

Pets cost money. Vet bills can really put a dent in your budget, especially if the pets get sick or hurt, and there are the other big ticket items like spaying and neutering. Food isn't cheap, either. And the accessories! For cats, at least, you need carriers, catnip mice, feather thingies, and various cat trees or fleecy bowls or soft paws claw covers. And you have to arrange for their care when you go away.

You get attached to pets. It hurts when you lose them.

So, although we really loved Pussle, we agreed: no more pets.

Well.

My darling, dear sweet husband is a softy soft softy, which is one of the reasons I love him. We had realized that a band of feral cats inhabited the neighborhood. Eventually, of course, one of the females had kittens. They found shelter under our neighbor's deck.

One day I came home from work and noticed a sack of kitten chow in the kitchen.

You guessed it. Joe's been putting out crunchies for the kitties -- there are two who partake. Both are black; one has a few stray white hairs on it's chest. For quite awhile, we never saw them. Joe would put out a dish; the next day, it would be empty.

Soon enough, though, the kitties got braver and would come up on the back stoop and eat in broad daylight. We watched quietly, because as soon they realized they were being watched they would bolt.

Then a couple weeks ago, midafternoon, Joe was looking out the back door when the bolder of the kitties came right up on the stoop, sat down next to the empty dish, and stared right up at him.

"So where's the chow?" he beamed.

He ran off while Joe refilled the dish, but then he ran right up to it, along with his timid sibling.

The I made a crucial mistake. I named them: Inky and Stinky.

Last Saturday, we had the back door open to take advantage of the splendid Indian summer breezes. And before we knew it, Inky came strolling in like he owned the place. He took himself on a grand tour, then plopped down under the desk and looked right at us.

"Okay, it'll do."

So yeah. No more pets.

Hah.

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