Printmaking Courses in Spain

Mike was giving our store room/pantry its bi-annual cleaning the other morning when I heard him call out, “There’s a dead cat in the despensa.” How did she get there? It wasn’t too difficult. It’s outside where the pig pen used to be. After that it was a darkroom, and for the past 15 years or so, since Photo Shop killed the darkroom, it’s been used for storage.

“Where?”

“Underneath the tent, behind the tree sprayer.” Then, “Wait, it’s not dead; but if you don’t feed it something it will be shortly.”

So, instead of giving the minute grey waif extreme unction we baptized her Rosie and I gave her a few drops of semi-skimmed milk with a syringe every half hour. It didn’t take her long to brighten up, though her backbone still felt like a picket fence.

That was a week ago. Rosie now rules the house. She’s rounder, cleverer, faster and more confident. She can jump up on our bed in a single bound. For her that’s the equivalent of a 12-foot leap for a high jumper. Still, she’s not any bigger. Mike says maybe she’s a bonsai.

She thinks I’m her mother, follows me everywhere around the house, though she hasn’t gone outside yet.  That’s another whole world  to conquer. She talks and purrs, begs for food, eats raw hamburger as if it were a mouse, and climbs up on our laps seeking love. I can’t wait to see what she’ll be capable of when she’s two months old.

How is it that we hadn’t realized how badly we needed a new kitten? Luckily Rosie knew.