our first month with Kirby

Kirby’s been with us for a month now, and though I have had every intention of posting here more frequently to keep track of his progress and talk about some of the noteworthy things that have happened in that time, I haven’t gotten around to it – which sucks, because this little guy has been quite the addition to our home. He’s totally fearless, apparently indestructible, and one of the most loveable, delightful creatures I have ever had the pleasure of knowing. Here are some of the highlights:

His first full night with us, and the first time we tried to eat dinner as we normally would, we had to give him a time out because he kept climbing our legs to hop up on the table. Now, we don’t mind if the cats sit on the table when there’s no food on it, but the house rule is that when we’re ready to eat, the cats need to get down, we clean off the table, set it, and eat – no cat butts allowed. So we took him upstairs and put him in the bathroom, closing the door to keep him inside, and continuing with our meal. He cried and whined, and it broke my heart but it’s all a part of showing him his boundaries. As we neared the completion of our meal, I noticed that his voice sounded… closer.

Now, the carriage house has what we fondly refer to as “quirky New England architecture,” and because of our steeply angled ceiling on the top floor, the wall where the bathroom door is only goes up a few inches above the top of the door, with a flat ledge across and then open space to the peak. And we have a hook hanging over the inside of the door where our bathrobes hang. Put those factors together with a kitten who loves to climb things, and you can probably guess where we found him when we went up to investigate. (I wish I had a photo, but alas, we were laughing too hard and just wanted to get him down to safety. He’s been trying to figure out how to get back up there ever since.)

Kirby loves water. We briefly considered using a squirt-bottle as a training aid until we realized that being wet (like many other things) doesn’t faze him one bit. Water is for gleefully splashing about, all over the wall behind the water dish, often at your unsuspecting and sure-to-be-irritated kitty companions, glasses are for pushing and pulling and knocking over and off of things, and the bathtub is darn near the best thing ever if you’re a Kirby cat. Not a day goes by that we don’t have tiny wet paw prints trailing across the sofa cushions after our morning showers. I’m surprised he doesn’t just shower along with us.

The girls’ tolerance of the little interloper is improving every day. They were highly displeased at first and mostly tried to keep their distance, but in true Kirby fashion, he was bound and determined to win them over with his good looks and charming personality, which just served to irritate them more. He’d follow them to the litter boxes, crouched at a short distance, watching them, then waiting to pounce as they emerged – and you can imagine how well that went over. He’d get right up in their faces as they ate, which often ended with him being chased and swatted, but then he’d go right back for more. There was a period of a week or so where we were sure the little guy was going to get seriously hurt because he just wouldn’t back off and give Junie and Kali their space. He had, at one point, four big scabs on one side of his face from where contact was made with angry claws. He just didn’t care. He knows he’s awesome – and he wants everyone else to know it, too. The girls are coming around, slowly, and while there is still a bit of hissing and growling from the girls, the major incidents have subsided, and Kali has even groomed him on a few occasions. Our little guy is nothing if not persistent.

We had a pretty bad scare with him on Saturday evening. We had rented a zipcar for the day so that we could load up at the farmers’ market and run some other errands (easier to do that sort of stuff with a car rather than by bus and foot), and when we finished up, Mike headed out to return the car. I was in the kitchen doing a bit of washing up and dinner prep, and Kali and Kirby were on the table. I don’t remember exactly what happened next, but not two minutes after Mike walked out, Kirby was off the table, landing on the floor with his body one way and his back left leg awkwardly splayed out, looking at me with his big round eyes.

I started to panic when he hopped up, holding his leg up behind him, and hobbled over to one of the rugs, where he plopped down on his back with his hurt leg in the air. I frantically tried calling Mike to get him to come back with the car, thinking we were going to need to make an emergency trip to the vet, but he didn’t answer – he had forgotten to turn his ringer back on after charging his phone. I ran outside to see if I could catch him, but he was gone. I got back inside and there was no sign of Kirby or Kali. I freaked out, and tried dialing Mike again, and the next thing I know, Kirby comes bopping down the stairs like nothing happened. He crawled into my lap and sat for a bit while I finally connected with Mike and gave him the rundown of what had happened, then Kirby jumped down and started chasing a toy around the kitchen floor. We kept a close eye on him, but aside from favoring the leg ever-so-slightly for the first couple of hours after his rough landing, he was perfectly fine. He barely missed a beat.

To say Kirby is a mush is an understatement. I mean, Dubby was a mush, he loved to be held and carried around and danced with. Mike was always amazed at how completely trusting he was of us when we’d pick him up, turn him on his back and carry him like a baby. Kirby is actually a bigger mush than the Dub. When I get home from work in the evening, we sit at the kitchen table, have a cocktail and talk about our day. Kirby is generally right there with us, either hanging out on the table or playing with his toys on the floor, but every night, without fail, there comes a time when he comes over to me, puts his little paw on my chest and basically asks me to hold him. I pick him up and cradle him in my arms, and while he starts out right-side up, he always ends up lolling over to his side, in the crook of my arm, then as he loses the battle against sleep (and trust me, he does fight it) he rolls to his back, belly in the air, back legs limp and crossed, purring away. He keeps his front paws tucked under for a while, then stretches them way out over his head, which at this point is usually hanging off my arm. He can sleep this way for an hour, and though my arms often tire, I could hold him this way forever. I wish they made little snuggle slings for kitties.

We must have done something big to please the cat gods. I still can’t believe how lucky we are to have this little guy in our lives, and I want to preserve as many memories as I can.