Today, I did the kitten dance.
After a long day of work yesterday (15 hours broken only with some sushi and plum wine on my break — just one glass, mind you), I poured myself into the bathtub and then into bed around 4:30 a.m. only to wake up at 9:30 for…the kitten interview.
Spouse and I are looking for a kitten, and we have applications at a couple of shelters. Today I had my first interview.
It took an hour.
This made it the longest interview I have ever done. I answered questions about kitten-proofing the house, cat-training techniques, how I would respond to inappropriate kitteh behavior, how I felt about declawing (and could I describe the actual procedure used to declaw cats), whether or not the kitty would be allowed outside, how I would introduce the kitty to Buffy Puppy, and more. I answered questions about what might make me give a kitty back to the shelter. I told stories about my family’s cats and our history with animals in general. How much money I expected to spend per year.
And that was only the first interview!
Tomorrow, Spouse and I will go to an adoption event to talk to people in person about our future kitten experience. I feel like we’re adopting a child. They might even do a home visit.
I never thought I’d feel this nervous about getting a cat.
We don’t have any vet references, but I promise we’ll be good kitten parents.
I feel like a lot of my life lately has been just sending bits of me out into the ether going, “Oh, please! Pick me! Pick me!” Query letters. Adoption applications. All trying to sell myself as someone to be involved with, be it representing my writing or welcoming a little furball into the family.
What I’m longing for is for those decision-makers to look through their slush pile of queries and applications and reach out a paw.
Sure, all those ducklings look alike. I look at that picture, and I imagine all the little ducklings quacky-squeaking around, trying to be the best darned duckling they can be, hoping someone will pick them. I floss. I avoid adverbs. I will keep my kitten’s phalanges intact.
I hope the time is coming where I get to be someone’s George. I’m in a basket in the sun, trying to show off my golden fuzzy down and my ability to grow into a fine specimen, and I’m just waiting for the paw to come down and tap me into the game.
So. All you agents and shelter volunteers out there: I’m here. I’m the one you want.
Call me George!
Now. Who wants to see a real kitten dance?
Have you ever felt like a duckling in a basket? Have you ever felt like your life was dependent upon the choices of others? Do tell!
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