There will be no Cheesedoodle. At least, not that Cheesedoodle. Dammit! Linzee said that she wasn’t working that day, but they went up for adoption on Wednesday, she thinks, and were gone Thursday. The whole litter. Apparently they were several weeks older than I thought. Apparently there is a backlog of people who’ve been waiting all winter for a kitten. Grr.
Ahh well. There’re already more kittens out front. And Teresa said it doesn’t HAVE to be orange. Chris said he just likes the orange ones cuz they get big. I told him there are two particular strains of shorthaired cats that get big: orange toms, and black toms. Teresa said black would also be cool, so Sherry might get her wish.
And so, key learnings. Unless I personally see the litter being born, assume they’re old enough for adoption. Go every friggin’ day to check. Kitten doesn’t have to be orange. Okay.
I would be grouchier about it than I am, except that I got to hang out with Boris, the black and tan coonhound. Where in hell did we get a coonhound? I am mentally ill, I realize it, but I love hounds. Their personalities, their independence, their fantastic expressions. And there is a certain elegance in purebred animals who very specifically illustrate and demonstrate what their breeds were developed for. Boris has big, soulful hound eyes, and giant floppy ears, a sleek black coat with nice tan markings, and a long, skinny tail that points bolt upright when he’s on alert. Oh, and he bays. Good God, does he bay. (Hehe, I still think baying hounds are the funniest thing ever when it’s not your dog.)