Some solutions and presents come in dumpsters and they purr. Also, yodel. Also, insist. Sometimes they are what NPR calls the "St. Louis cat -- a brown tabby. I didn't see it till Missy said so, but this smidgen of cat-dom totally wears both tabby eyeglasses and also a mustache, with "I stepped in a puddle of milk paws". And yes, he or she can BEAT UP on the pups and when I turn my head for 10 fractions of a milisecond, either Dede or Spot try to NOM NOM NOM her, but she claws the shit out of them, like the spunky 14 oz wonder that she is.
Age is uncertain -- fleas and worms have stunted her growth. I dunked her in a sink of warm water, and it immediately turned shades of brown, then I dedicated many sun-filled minutes on the front porch to coaxing her to cease wiggling so I could detach endless fleas migrating to drier ground. She was not pleased to be so wet, no she wasn't. She is learning to like Shirley Manson, also, Belle and Sebastian. She is learning to beat up on Jack Russel Terriers and to put the stomp down on excited 2-year-old cattle dogs. No one else cares; the pit bull and the resident dame of the house know that their position is not compromised by something that fits in a tea cup.
Even Olivia can't be arsed. At least the kitten doesn't bite her tail when she leaves it artistically dangling.
So I spend my days scrubbing. Dust. Grime. In wonder and amazement -- how is there this much? Also, hoping and praying for a better future, wondering how to save myself. But you see, I was angry and frustrated, and I went and took shots of kitten love, and now? Everything feels more sound, it is clicking into place. I cannot save the world. I cannot save Africa. I cannot save Vietnam. But me? I can save dumpster kittens. I hear, rumors, that sometimes I do an o-kay job.