In a Pickle

So last week my mom started sending me photos of the kitten. Several of them included "Molly's baby" in the title. It was all very cute, but there was one small flaw upon which my mental sweater snagged: the kitten in the photos was not the kitten of whom my mother had been sending photos for the previous 6 weeks. When I asked her about it, OOPS, she'd already given that one away and when she was talking about "the runt" before, she was referring to this other kitten. Well, gee, okay.

We went to pick her up on Saturday and I fell instantly in love. Named her "Pickle."
The poor exhausted little mite fell asleep while licking herself.


She is perfectly adorable, if slightly obnoxious; she is positive she could nurse on Sinner, our decidedly male older cat, if he would just hold still and let her find a nipple. My limbs are covered in scratches thanks to her ambitious schedule of playing and climbing all over me irrespective of whether I am awake at the time. I have been tempted a few times to toss her out the window of our tri-level townhouse, but her cuteness has saved her each time. It has only been three days, but she has already entrenched herself firmly in our little family. Which consists mostly of domesticated animals, now that I think about it.

Goddamn, we're outnumbered.