My Kitty Litter

The flashlight beam plays along the short, shag rug. Dozens of yellow, green and blue eyes stare up at me. I groaned inwardly and flop over to look at the clock. I shouldn’t have bothered, as always, it flashes 4:00 a.m.  Muddy, my black-and- white tuxedo kitty settles down onto my shoulder. The pressure of this one-year old on my arm brought me again out of my sleep, reminding me another day is about to start...

The floor, littered with kitties makes me smile. I used to refer to them as my Motley Crew, but now so many abandoned ones have found their way into our home, I call them My Kitty Litter; tossed outside by uncaring owners, left behind when people get evicted or are faced with losing their homes. Just like kitty litter, tossed out like the trash!

Predominant color this year is black. Black cats get little respect in a small, narrow-minded town. Looked upon with scorn and suspicion and during certain times each year, they can come to harm from people with no morals or conscience about hurting other living creatures. I had a woman interested in adopting a kitten visit a few days ago. As we stepped into the cat enclosure and she saw all the black kitties at various stations, she turned to me and said, “Do you have any in other colors?” I wanted to retort, “What am I, a wallpaper store?” But I kept my tongue and quietly told her I didn’t believe I had anything she would want. Then I escorted her to the gate. She had no idea what happened, but my kitties knew. She didn’t pass muster.

They know instinctively when to call a meeting and gather at my feet. I sleep in the guest room these days for it allows Mike the luxury of sleeping in, something I am no longer allowed to do. The kitties use no alarm clocks, cell phones or Blackberries for these meetings, yet they manage to assemble every day at the exact same time. They stare up through the darkness waiting in trust for their Chief Petting Officer; the purveyor of pet food, their two-legged can-opener to wake up.

Resistance is futile, reaching for my fuzzy slippers, I carefully inspect the dark cavity within my right slipper, extracting a ping-pong ball. My left slipper doesn’t budge, seems it’s gained some weight in the middle of the night. Clarence, my orange boy’s rump is placed at the heel, his head buried into the toe. I scratch his tail-head and he plays elevator butt before finally raising his head and looking at me. His eyes betray him; he is as sleepy as me. He isn’t going to be moving any time soon.

Barefooted, I make my way into the kitchen and open up containers of cat food. The kitten scramble is on- they approach at a run some of them losing footing and sliding over the length of the tiled floor. You would think they never get fed! I bought two dozen cans of cat food on sale last night. The sad part about this find is by afternoon, the food will be gone. Salem, my most Alpha of the black kittens grabs onto the bottom of my pajama legs and bites down. His grip is firm- he isn’t wasting any time, he wants to start eating early. Since my leg isn’t on the menu, I gently remove him from my leg.

The kitties swirl around creating a colored carpet of fur. Diving into the food trays, the cats lay waste to the dry and wet food in short order. Piper, my alpha female, growls as she eats. At this stage in their lives (9 weeks old) the newly rescued kittens are used to her vocal displays of aggression. Some becoming unnerved back off and seek other trays to feast upon. She is a scamp achieving her purpose of running them off. By the time they return to her tray, she will have finished the majority of the food. The other cats arrive through the tunnel. Carefully, I navigate through the litter, now it’s my time; it’s time for coffee.