Reflections on the Twelfth Week of Summer – Kittens and Company

Ande on the Table with the Warty Squash

Last Sunday, Kay, our friend from Portland, gave me a warty squash, stepped inside the log house, and swiveled her head from side to side. “I want to see those kittens.”

Paws pattering against floor boards, Ande scampered down the hall and stopped by Kay’s feet.

Her husband Eric, Spence’s friend since grade school, chuckled. He dwarfed Spence as they carried luggage to the bedrooms.

Kay bent to pet the kitten. “Ooh. Which one is this, and how do I tell them apart?”

“That’s Ande, the ambassador. He’s mostly white.” I set the squash on the kitchen table and scanned the great room. A kitten slunk along the sliding glass door across the room. I pointed. “That’s Rills, the explorer. He’s skinny with a dark head and white fur that looks like a collar.”

While Kay stood and practiced, “Ande . . . Rills,” I stooped to peek under the sofa for the third kitten.

Wary yellow eyes stared back.

“Gilbert, the philosopher, is hiding. His head’s white with a dark butterfly shape covering his ears.”

Kay glanced under the sofa and sighed. “Even though I’m allergic to cats, I love kittens.”

Our kittens have two modes―rest and reckless rioting. Would she, a dog owner, still love kittens after a two night stay? Perhaps itchy eyes, a stuffy nose, and fatigue from kitten shenanigans would change her mind.

Monday, Kay and I searched websites for Regency fabric and dress patterns in preparation of my attending the 2020 Jane Austen General Meeting. Kay squinted at her phone. “This website gives the McCall pattern five stars for ease of sewing but says it doesn’t satisfy some

historians.”

Ambassador Ande made a diplomatic move. He put his paws on Kay’s thigh.

She petted him and took a sip of coffee.

Ande rubbed his whiskers against her knee then reached his paws higher up her thigh.

Kay set her phone on the table and petted Ande’s head. “What do you want?”

I grabbed his middle and lifted him off the floor. “He’s asking to sit in your lap.”

Kay reached for Ande. “You’re a friendly kitty.” She set him on her lap and touched her screen to review a Butterick pattern.

Later, Ande moseyed to Eric lounging in a log chair. Ande stretched his front legs and pawed Eric’s cargo pants.

Eric chuckled. “You want something, kitty?”

“He wants to sit in your lap,” I answered for Ande while I studied a photo of blue flowers on off-white Regency fabric.

Eric chuckled again. “Okay.” He leaned down, lifted Ande to his lap, and patted Ande’s head.

Compared to Ambassador Ande’s formal welcome, Philosopher Gilbert used a deliberative approach. He studied the guests before interacting.

Crouched behind the toy basket, he watched Kay and me on the sofa. Stretching my hands, I held a skein of soft gray and tan yarn while Kay rolled it into a ball. She tucked the ball inside her pink knitting bag.

From the same vantage point, Gilbert observed Kay sit in a log chair and flick the ends of a circular knitting needle―click, click, click―to make a shawl. The yarn twirled around Kay’s index finger, dangled, and disappeared into the pink bag at her feet.

Paw by paw, Gilbert crept toward the bag.

“Our Westie chases cars . . .” Kay tugged yarn off the ball in the bag. “From inside the house.”

I giggled, and Gilbert thrust his nose into the pink bag.

Kay leaned forward and nudged the kitten away. “You’re clever to find the yarn ball.” She lifted the bag to the coffee table and looped more yarn around the needle. “Duffy runs to the window and barks at every car, bicyclist, or pedestrian until they’re out of sight.”

Gilbert backed out of sight―behind his toy basket.

Gilbert on Pillow Mountain

And Explorer Rills provided drama.

When septuagenarians get together, I admit, there’s little physical drama. We’d lingered over lunch and indulged in a laid-back chat about Eric and Kay’s travels in France―the woman with a big yellow hat that blocked the view of the Mona Lisa in the Louvre, sipping champagne on top of the Eiffel Tower, and protecting granddaughter Cedar from the detachable banister on the third floor of a Paris Airbnb.

Circling the kitchen table, Rills raised his nose and sniffed―perhaps catching the lingering aroma of olives and prosciutto. He chose Eric’s side for the leap. Rills missed the table top by centimeters. He flexed his claws and dug into Eric’s place mat.

Only an empty sandwich plate weighed the mat down.

Swish, thump, crash.

The mat, Rills, and the plate hit the floor.

“Oh. It was my fault.” Eric stared at the broken plate. “I should have caught it.”

Spence picked up the two pieces. “That was Janet’s wedding china.”

Kay’s forehead wrinkled. “Could you glue it together?”

I took the pieces from Spence and stuffed them into a bag. “It was Rills’ fault, and it’s just a plate.” I dropped the bag into the garbage. “I’m just glad I don’t have to clean up any shards.” I was also glad the kitten hadn’t scratched the guests in a desperate grab or pulled one of their cell phones to a smashing encounter with the hardwood floor.

Rills slunk to the bathroom where Ande and Gilbert stalked each other from opposite sides of the shower curtain. Poke, swat, pounce. Their version of kitten whack-a-mole.

With kitten-company daytime relations off to a smashing start, I needed to protect the guests from the feline trio at night.

“Close your bedroom doors.” I yawned as Kay headed for my room and Eric turned into the guest room. “And don’t let the kittens in if you get up for bathroom trips during the night.”

Eric chuckled.

Kay waved.

While Spence read news on the sofa, I climbed the spiral stairs to the loft bed.

Behind me metal steps clanged under racing kitten paws.

Rills and Ande skidded to a stop by the bed. They glared.

Stifling a laugh at their stressed-kitten expressions, I opened Richard Powers’s The Overstory and patted the mattress. “I’m allowed to sleep here. You can too.” Being a practical person, I rolled onto my side and resisted the urge to add if you’re quiet.

Gilbert, the kitten that won't climb the scary stairs, let out a mournful mew from the first floor.

“It’s okay, Gilly,” Spence’s voice assured. “I’ll stay with you―not like those kitty traitors.”

Ande and Rills kneaded the blanket and curled into kitten balls. Perhaps their welcoming-drama day tired them, and we could rest.

Forcing my eyes to stay open, I reread the same paragraph four times before giving up, setting the book on the bedside table, and turning off the light.

A kitten pounced on my back.

I pulled the covers over my head in time to cushion paws hammering my ear.

After a five minute race, which gave me a thorough massage, the kittens changed the speedway bed into a circus tent. They whirled chasing their tails. Finally, having worn themselves out, Ande settled beside my stomach, and Rills pressed against my back. The clock chimed eleven, two hours past my bedtime. We slept until my bladder announced, Morning! Hurry downstairs or else . . .

Attempting to prevent that or else, I didn’t roll to the edge of the bed and execute a gentle yoga rise. Instead, scattering the kittens, I threw off the covers and jumped out of bed.

Oops. The rash rising, together with not enough sleep, sent a swirl of effervescent bubbles through my head. Vertigo.

Clutching the railing and the center post, I staggered down the stairs and into the bathroom. Sheesh.

Tuesday afternoon, Kay gathered her gear and took a deep breath. “The kittens didn’t trigger my allergies.” She paused for a last look at the brothers in rest mode on the sofa. “They’re delightful, rambunctious cats.”

Delightful and rambunctious are two words I don’t usually pair.

I’m glad the ambassador, explorer, and philosopher hadn’t changed Kay’s love for kittens or triggered her allergies. However, the kittens’ company manners did change a Wells Wood custom. We store the place mats in a kitchen cupboard leaving the warty squash in sole possession of the table.

Rills in the Laundry Basket