Lordy, Lordy; How Time Flies When You Have a New GrandDaughter. And Someone You Love Gives You a Kitten.

So, yeah; it's been a while. A looooong while. But I've been so busy with the GrandDaughter. Shoppingholdingshoppingcrochetingshoppingsewingshoppingetc. And shopping! This GrandDaughter has the dubious distinction of being the first female born into hubby's family in nearly a century; so there ARE no hand-me-downs (as if she would be allowed to wear them.) Which means, of course, that Mema, Nanny, Grandma, Siti, Nona, All the Aunties, and Twenty-Or-So-Of-My-Best-Friends have purchased at least two of every cute outfit available in retail shops, outlet stores, and on line. And her parents spend most of their waking hours changing her clothes and taking pictures, so that everyone gets to see how cute she is in the cute outfits they bought. (My pragmatic and insufferably-designerized, dressed-to-impress friend Penelope is teaching her to say "wardrobe allowance", so she's prepared; should the flow of cute clothing ever ebb.)

Which brings me to the kitten.

The day the GrandDaughter ("GD") came home from the hospital with her Proud Parents ("PPs") was gloriously perfect to test-drive the new jogging stroller. The PPs dressed GD in many layers of cuteness, because it was a tad cool; and also because it was an opportunity to photograph GD in several of her cute outfits. GD was ceremoniously escorted outdoors, and placed in her shiny new chariot. Where she immediately pooped. Unruffled, the PPs reacted as naturally as Jon and Kate (Plus Eight)...they returned to the nursery, to dress and photograph GD in more size-0-to-3-month layers; which she would likely outgrow before dinner. And headed back out to the jogging stroller. Which was now inhabited by

A kitten.

The day you bring a baby home from the hospital is probably not a good day to adopt a kitten, so what do you do? The logical solution, of course, is to call your mother.

"Uh, Mom? There's a kitten in the front yard. What should we do?"

Well, so much for my plans to go baby shopping.

They crated the kitten. I set out to fetch it, looking for "Lost Cat" signs along the way; and they went for a walk. No one was home when I got there; I couldn't blame them. When you give someone the "opportunity" to rescue a kitten from your front yard you are probably giving them the "opportunity" to have and to hold (and to feed and to vet and to clean up after) that kitten until death do you part. And if the person to whom you are granting this "opportunity" already has five cats, it is best to be gone when the kitten is retrieved.

On to the vet, checking every telephone pole along the way for a "Lost Cat" sign. I would have been in luck if I wanted to earn $10,000 a month working at home, or if I wanted to lose 40 pounds in two weeks or I needed a queen-sized, nearly new mattress. But, no lost cats. The foster kitty wailed and howled the whole ride. Or maybe it was singing along with the radio.

As we checked in, the receptionist asked me his name. "He's a foster cat. I hope to find him a good home. Has anyone called you looking for a lost kitten?" She didn't respond. Just filled out the chart with my last name, and "Foster" in the space for "Pet's Name".

In the exam room, I finally got a look at my charge, a stringy teenage boy. Mostly white, but with an incongruous Pin-the-Tail-on-the-Kitty gray striped tail. He stopped howling when I let him out of the box; and wandered around the room inspecting things. And...this is the only way I can describe his vocalizations...muttering to himself. He jumped into the sink, and pushed a handle enough to make the water drip. Splashed. Tried to extract a paper towel from the holder. Swatted at the foot pedal on the trash can. Opened the gate to his crate and went in. Out. InOut. Stuck a paw under the exam room door. Mumbling.

Enter, the Vet. She scooped him up, with a cheerful, "Hello Foster!" No, no, I protested. A foster kitty. No caps, not a name. "I just love that name, Foster! So distinguished! Perfect for your handsome young man!" She was beaming as she set him on the table. I gave up. Pronounced in fine health, foster kitty set about amusing himself while we discussed the removal of, um, problematic parts of his anatomy. He continued to mutter, as he opened a cabinet and attempted a drawer. His doc was quite pleased to note this "talking" behavior, hallmark of the Siamese, her favorite kind of cat (although she didn't need another, thank you very much.) She also commented on his "busy-ness" in unfamiliar territory. Using words like "self-assured", "assertive" and "bright."

Those are not necessarily positive attributes in teenage kittens.

Foster, in fact, is a geek.

No button goes un-pushed. No flashing light flashes for naught. He turns off the automatic litter box. He turns the printer on, and prints copies of the screen saver. Lots of copies. He understands the mechanism of flushing; fortunately he doesn't yet have the strength for it. But, based on the amount of food consumed and his rapidly expanding frame, I'm sure it won't be long. And last night, when the smoke detector went off (scaring the fool out of me and interrupting a really good dream about being at a nice warm beach) I scrambled to gather cowering animals and lead them to safety; finding Foster easily. He was on top of the kitchen cabinets, pushing the smoke alarm test button.

Anyone need a self-assured, assertive, not to mention bright, kitten? I'll even throw in some free smoke alarm batteries.