Last year we stole a cat.
Not really a cat, a kitten. One of our neighbour’s kittens.
Whaaaat? *innocent face* They had a litter of six. We didn’t think they’d
notice mind us stealing adopting one of them.
Oh, shut up. Anyway, Moona (as we renamed her) has lived with us since last September and she’s a joy. She follows Rob around like a puppy and loves being cradled like a baby:
Last week, Moona had kittens of her own.
Look, just shut up. By the time she was old enough to get spayed we were buried under 3 feet of snow and couldn’t drive to the vet. By the time everything had thawed she was up the duff. So, it’s not like we’re irresponsible, lazy parents. Noooo. Not that at all. It’s the weather’s fault.
Cats are only pregnant for around two months so, before we knew it, the kittens were being born. In our bedroom. We’d made a nest for Moona out of a big cardboard box. It was very well designed – a nice big hole at the front for an entrance (but with a lip high enough that the kittens couldn’t escape), big side windows (so we could peek in) and shredded Good Housekeeping magazine on the floor (only the best for our Moona). Not good enough apparently, as Moona cruelly shunned the box, got into our bed and started pushing.
Clearly she thinks she is a Victorian lady and the only appropriate place for her to labour is under the covers.
Anyway, we hastily concocted a new nest of blankets on the floor next to the bed and managed to coax her down onto that. And that’s where they were born.
Obviously birth is a beautiful thing, and stuff. Miracle of nature, etc etc. But, frankly, I’m not sure I can look at Moona the same after seeing a kitten hanging out of her arse. Did you know cats eat the placentas (one for each kitten) when they come out? Yep. I’d read about it in advance, but wasn’t actually prepared for watching it happen. At least she ate it quickly. I went off to the corner of the room for a theatrical gagging session and by the time I returned a few seconds later it was all gone.
Sadly, out of a litter of three, Kitten No.3 didn’t survive. But we’re left with two gorgeous kittens. They’re ten days old now and just opening their eyes. Iggy, the boy, is black and white; and Pepper, the girl is stripy grey. Say hi:
|Cuddles with Moona Mum|
|Pepper is very good at posing|
|Iggy is determined to be the first one to walk|
Moona has taken to motherhood pretty well, considering she’s a young mum. Every now and then she looks a bit fed up – we’ll catch her stretched out on her side feeding the kittens with this look on her face that says I’m so over this now. I want to go out with my mates. She’s probably the cat equivalent of Vicky Pollard. I know she enjoys my lectures though: well Moona, you’ve got responsibilities now, it’s not just about you anymore…
Naturally, we’ll be making an appointment with the vet for Moona’s ‘snip’ as soon as the kittens are weaned. Meanwhile, she is being held prisoner in the house to avoid any more little accidents! We love them loads, but going from zero cats to three cats in the space of nine months makes us borderline crazy cat people. No. More. Cats.
We’ll just have to remember to get the kittens spayed too!