week full of memories

Last weekend marked the 4th year of having this little shit in our lives:

I honestly do not know what made Anton think that he was a good idea. We had four cats at the time: Boyd, Annabelle, Kira, and Eowyn. Anton was overwhelmed with them- "animals in the house" he'd always muse. When he was growing up, his dad raised birds, but they never had any of the fluffy, cuddly companion animals that I grew up with. We had just passed the sixth month mark on our marriage, we'd been through a fire destroying our apartment and meeting his family, so I guess we were due for a new challenge. 

We were up at my grandmother's helping her with a garage sale, and down the road several of her neighbors were also trying to take advantage of the holiday travelers. One of them had a crate full o' kittens, and Anton was enamored. By the time we actually went down to look at the kittens (because it doesn't hurt to look.) there were two left- a fiesty little tuxedo girl and a pitiful little lump of orange and white. We played with them for a bit and went back to my grandma's. To me, they were clearly too young to be separated from their mother, even though the owners insisted that all the kittens were litter box trained and eating solid food. Anton kept going on about how the little orange and white one was only just the ONLY CAT HE'D EVER WANT EVER. He was orange and white. He had star-burst blue  eyes! HOW COULD WE LEAVE HIM. 

The day were were set to go home, my Gram wanted to go down to see the other garage sales, so off she and Anton went in the golf cart while I stayed behind to man hers. I should have known better. 

Back they came, Gram cuddling that bastard little furball to her chest. 

"No. No no no no no. Absolutely not." I said over and over again. "Take him back. Take him back right now." Right up until my grandma shoved him into my arms and the furry little jerk has been with us ever since. 

His previous family SUCKED DONKEY DONG. Not only was he covered in fleas (the first thing we did was give him a bath. Way to bond!), he was not eating solid food. On top of that, even at 5-6 weeks, he was underweight and undersize. The first thing we should have been doing was getting his shots, but we had to weight almost two months until he was at a decent size. Even then, the vet wouldn't do bloodwork on him because he was so small. 

I can't say that everyone back at home fell in love with him right away. Eowyn kept trying to crush him. 

(omg. how tiny is he? How fat is she?)

Kira warmed up to him once she found out he got kitten milk, her favorite food in the whole world. Annabelle still hasn't warmed to the idea, and Boyd, the one I was most worried about (when we got Boyd, my mom's other male cat, Malachi, went so emo he still hasn't recovered) accepted his mini me without must hesitation.

I agonized over that little brat. I was on instant messenger at work sending Anton an endless barrage of worried questions about Chester's wellbeing while I was gone. More than once, I came home, couldn't find him, and would berate Anton for not watching him better, only to find him like this:  

It's still his coping mechanism. Whenever he's scared, be it from toddlers or noisy construction or sirens or sizzling pans, under the blankets he goes. It's adorable. 

The first few weeks he was a snuggly, cuddly, happy little baby. Then he turned into big ol' jerk face. And scratched and clawed his way into my heart. Bastard. 

  

And also he has mono. 

Seriously. Cutest. Kitten. Ever. 

Oh, Chester Lloyd Finneaus Suckbutt III, I heart you. 

This is long past teal deer, but Anton and I have been musing over our favorite stories from when he first came home with us.

~ I wanted him to be as comfortable in the car as Boyd is, so we would take him on little excursions around town. One trip took us to an ice cream stand, and they gave him a teeny tiny little ice cream cone that he got all over himself. This may or may not be why he's always stealin' my sorbet.

~ For the first couple months, we kept his litter box in the hallway, so we could make sure he was using it. He certainly was little box trained, covering his leavings was one of his favorite games. What we didn't count on was Kira thought having a litter box in the hall way was the BEST.IDEA.EVAR. She would happily use it, and he would angrily chase her off, and growl his little baby growl as he covered up whatever she left. He'd sit next to his box a good twenty minutes each time to discourage anyone else from trying it.

~ Whenever he ate his baby food, we started to keep him separate from everyone else, otherwise he'd stick his paw on the plate and growl as he ate. Angry growls. Growls that would get shelter dogs put down because they were food aggressive.

~I was scared of one of the cats getting too aggressive with him as we slept, so for the first few weeks he slept under a laundry basket (Boyd would sleep on top of the laundry basket. I'm not sure if this was to intimidate or to comfort him.) but eventually, he figured out how to get out, and would get in bed between mine and Anton's pillows and purr. For such a little baby, he had a loud, obnoxious, purr, and wouldn't stop until we let him know we were awake and cuddled him.

~ Now, when he wants me to get up, he doesn't go the obnoxious route that Boyd does (who headbutts and yowls until I get up). No, he cuddles. and snuggles. Then slowly moves closer and closer to my face. Then licks it. Then bites it. Wait. That's not cute.

~ Until he was about 7 months old, he could walk under Boyd. And did. All the time. It killed us each time. We are so easily amused.