Reflections on the Tenth Week of Spring – Introducing Anne Spelled-with-an-E, Rilla, and Gilbert

Anne Spelled-with-an-E Bathing

Saturday, May 25, our son Charlie toted a battered cat carrier through the front door. After a day with a lot-of-boxes at UPS then an hour drive from the dairy farm where the kittens were born, he winced, rubbed his shoulder with his free hand, and said in a weary voice, “Where do you want them?”

I squealed and hugged myself. “In your bedroom!”

Surprise flashed across his exhausted face, but he trudged down the hall and set the carrier on the floor in the middle of his room. I shoved an old bathmat underneath the litter box I’d placed behind the bookcase. My husband Spence fetched pliers and undid the plastic cable ties holding the wire door to the carrier.

Bowing our heads in a semi circle at the carrier opening, the three of us stared in at six kitten eyes staring out. The six-and-a half-week old kittens huddled in back. Spence put a bowl of water in the carrier, set two bowls of kitten food on a place mat beside the carrier, and closed the bedroom door when he left to make dinner. Charlie and I sat on the floor and chatted. The kitten huddle shifted but didn’t break.

After Charlie, Spence, and I ate in the great room, I checked Charlie’s room. Silence. I peeked into the carrier. No kittens. I looked behind the nightstand, bed, and bookcase. No kittens. I checked under the desk and dresser. Dust bunnies. No kittens.

Back in the great room, I gave a report. “The kittens either burrowed between storage tubs in the closet or magically transported.”

Spence said, “Don’t worry. Flopsy, Mopsy, and Cotton-tail are fine.”

Charlie chuckled and headed for bed.

I wanted to give the kittens three related names. I didn’t want similar sounding names or rabbit names. “Snap, Crackle, and Pop?”

Spence rubbed his mustache with his finger. “George and Emma were great names. The kittens need people names.”

Before bed, I listed two pages of characters from favorite authors.

Sunday morning, Charlie put a cardboard barrier in his bedroom doorway before he came to breakfast.

I slid the cardboard to tiptoe in for a glimpse of the kittens. Scratching sounds, of a kitten climbing the log wall, came from the closet. I peeked in to see white paws on the extra pillows atop the storage bins. Then a white face emerged from between Spence’s hanging shirts. The kitten blinked and lowered itself behind the storage bins―the best place for three barn kittens to spend the day with seven relatives arriving for Memorial Day celebrations. Instead of listening to cows moo or the farm dog bark, the kittens could acclimate to Wells Wood sounds―the chiming kitchen clock, a flushing toilet, tromping shoes, and gabbing guests.

Waiting for the company, I read names to Spence.

“Lucy Maud Montgomery’s Anne Spelled-with-an-E, Diana, and Gilbert.”

“We’ll confuse Diana with your friend.”

“Jane Austen’s Fredrick, Anne, and Louisa.”

“Freddy the Freeloader?”

“Sheakspeare’s Titania, Bottom, and Hermia.”

“All flawed characters.”

He reacted similarly to the other names on the list. I fetched more paper.

Monday morning, Charlie left to do chores at his Seneca apartment. I cleaned his Wells Wood bedroom. It had a smelly problem.

One pile of poop lay on the floor and one lay in the litter. Kitten pee saturated the bathmat.

Spence slid the cardboard to investigate the kittens and me.

“The bathmat felt more like a barn floor to the kittens than the litter did.” I wrinkled my nose and replaced the mat with cardboard.

“Maybe the sides of the box are too high.” Spence fetched a plastic seedling tray before heading out to his portable greenhouse.

Rilla

In the closet, I removed damp pillows and got a second whiff of kitten pee. It sloshed on top of the storage containers. I pulled one from the closet, and the male kitten streaked past me. I pulled the second container out, and the two females cowered in the corner. On hands and knees, I scrubbed pee and poop off the floor. The tabby raced past. The white-faced kitten hissed.

I squeezed against the door jam. “Go around me.”

She hissed again.

Inching closer to her corner, I kept scrubbing.

She zoomed out of the closet.

I set in cardboard, the seed tray with litter, and George and Emma’s old cat tent―the kittens needed a new place to hide. Since picking the kittens up and scratching their paws in the litter wasn’t going to happen today, I added a quart of potting soil to each box to cue the kittens that litter replaced dirt. Then I tossed the floor poop into the seed tray―another cue.

With the smelly problem under control, I tackled names again. Because “Starshine” reverberated in my head―a reaction to the kitten with the white face no doubt―I read names from the musical Hair to Spence when he returned from the greenhouse.

“Starshine, Aquarius, Hair.”

“Are you still working on names?” His face registered disbelief. “Pick something. Anything.”

“I don't want to make a mistake. I have to live with their names for the rest of my life.”

“I’m done with names.” He grabbed a can of carbonated water, pulled the cap off, and took a swig. “I’ll accept whatever you decide.”

I needed help. I emailed my sister and texted my son.

Anita replied.

“How about Henrietta Pussycat and a couple of other names from Mr. Rogers Neighborhood. How about names of flowers, bushes, or trees on the farm.

How about names of islands off Nova Scotia in the area of Prince Edward Island or towns on PE.”

Charlie texted.

“Wonder Woman, Batman, and Robin.

Arthur, Morgan, Guinevere.

Zero, Infinity, and The Square Route of Negative One.

Pris, Dot, Harry or Bob? It’s Memorial Day. Honor your parents.”

For hours, I studied Beatle songs and Sherlock Holmes characters. Two minutes before bedtime, I spit out a mouthful of toothpaste and made a pronouncement in the great room.

“Sergeant Pepper, Jude, and Eleanor Rigby!”

Spence turned a page in Barbara Kingsolver’s Unsheltered. “I don’t like Jude.”

Tossing the seven pages of names into the fire-starter-paper box, I moaned. “I thought you didn’t care what I named them.”

Gilbert

“You’re having too much angst. I like Anne with an E and Gilbert.”

“Okay. Anne Spelled-with-an-E, Gilbert, and Rilla.” I turned out the kitchen lights, walked to the bedroom, and pulled a nightgown over my head.

“His nickname could be Dilbert,” Spence called.

I ignored him and listened to the pattering paws of kittens playing tag. Crashes halted the pattering. Perhaps they’d climbed on the bookcase and knocked some mysteries off the shelf. One kitten mewed a wailing cry. Maybe it missed its mother.

Tuesday I sat on the kitten room floor―Charlie’s bedroom had a new name. I talked to the hidden kittens and, using my laptop, processed kitten photos I’d taken leaning over the barrier. When my butt numbed and my knees complained, I figured the kittens wouldn’t make an appearance. After I finished the photo of the girls on Emma’s old cat carrier, I would leave.

Before I finished, Anne Spelled-with-an-E squeezed out from under the dresser. A dust bunny hitched a ride on her tail. I appreciated the cleaning help.

Anne took two steps toward me and one step back. She crept close enough to smell my slippers and rub her whiskers on the dongle for the wireless mouse. She even put her paw on my yoga pants.

Rilla peeked out from under the dresser. She stared at me then ducked back under. Twice more she stepped out, turned, and ducked away.

I left to pack for lap swim. On one of the trips from my bedroom to the bathroom, I spotted Gilbert at the food bowl.

He spied me and dashed for the dresser. At least we’d made eye contact.

Wednesday morning both litter boxes had piles of poop, and the smelly problem hadn’t returned. I concentrated on my kitten relationships.

Sitting on the floor, I shook the kitten’s food bowl. Crunchies rattled.

Anne Spelled-with-an-E crept out from under the dresser, hunkered on the opposite side of the bowl, and munched.

Reaching across, I petted her head with my finger.

She looked at me then lowered her head for more crunchies.

I stroked again. I wanted to hold her, but . . .

Rilla and Anne Spelled-with-an-E on top of Emma's Old Carrier

Later in the day, I returned with an iced-tea spoon and the can of tuna Spence had been adding to their kitten crunchies. Only one spoonful remained. Maybe it would be enough.

Anne and Rilla watched me approach the door. When I slid the cardboard to step inside, Rilla darted under the dresser. Anne’s nostrils twitched.

Sitting with my back against the wall, I scooped a flake onto the end of the spoon, and extended it toward Anne.

She raised a paw.

I waved the spoon.

Mouth open, she dashed for the spoon and gobbled the flake. After licking the spoon, she took a step back.

Spooning out another flake, I extended it a shorter distance.

While she ate that spoonful, I petted her. She didn’t back away so I picked her up and put her on my lap. She licked the spoon. I pulled schmutz out of her fur. She licked the can. I picked her up and held her against my chest. So fragile and light―about the weight of an extra ounce letter. She licked her paws.

Rilla watched from three feet away. She lifted her nose in the air and sniffed, but wouldn’t approach me.

I set Anne on my lap. She finished the remnants in the can then stepped off and walked to Rilla.

Rilla sniffed Anne’s mouth.

Anne groomed herself.

Rilla sniffed Anne again then stared at me. Rilla didn’t approach me or the empty can.

Gilbert stuck his head out and pulled it back. After the sixth repetition, he crawled out, walked around the litter box, and ducked under the desk.

Progress!

But Thursday, the smelly problem returned. Kitten pee puddled the floor of the cat tent. The kittens considered it a third litter box. I took the tent out to the porch to dry, replaced the sopping cardboard, and refilled the boxes without potting soil. They were fine with that, but Friday drips of diarrhea dotted the floor and bed. I stripped the bed and covered the mattress with heavy plastic. After washing the bed linens, I lay the quilt on the plastic. It crinkled when the kittens pranced―maybe it reminded them of hay. Until their kitten digestive systems settle, I can scrub the floor and launder the quilt.

Then the name problem returned. I called Gilbert “George” and Anne “Emma.” I called Anne “Rilla” and Rilla “Gilbert.” They reacted to the mixed-up names like the crinkling plastic―nothing to scamper away from.

Sunday, while I typed this saga, Anne Spelled-with-an-E worked on her people skills.

Because she mewed at the cardboard barrier, Spence picked her up for a walking tour of the first floor. He set her back in kitten room and slid the barrier open. Anne scampered out and explored on her own―except for the other bedroom. I closed that door. I didn’t want diarrhea drops on my bed.

After she jumped onto the sofa and walked across Spence’s computer, Anne scrambled up a basket, containing wildflower and bird guides, then walked over piles of papers to me sitting in the log chair. I scooped her up and held her against my chest.

She purred.

I petted.

When we’d bonded for ten minutes, I set set her down and typed. She scampered down the hall to lead Rilla and Gilbert back.

They didn’t climb the basket of guides to reach me. I’m fine with that. If they did, I would never finish this blog.

Bundle of Kittens - Gilbert, Rilla, and Anne Soelled-with-an-E