My mom told me over the phone that she was interested in a kitten my neighbor had found and asked me to care for her for a few days until she could pick her up. The kit
ten is six weeks old, housebroken already, and came with a litter box, food, a scratchy house and toys. No problem, I thought. It is only for a few days.
(Insert dramatic shock horror) Dun dun dun!
When my daughter awoke from her nap, she spotted the white fluffy ball instantly. “Toy!” she shouted and pointed. My throat tightened and my eyes felt huge. Oh crap. See, I translated her enthusiastic statement to “Mongo smash.” And in a flash, the kitten was in her tight grasp. It reminded me of the Bugs Bunny cartoon where the Abominable Snowman grabs Daffy Duck: “I will name him George, and I will hug him and pet him and squeeze him.”
My daughter did not like it when I had to pry the poor thing from her monstrous hands. The kitten meowed – a lot. My daughter calmed down a bit when I brought her up on my lap and explained to her that the cat was a baby cat named Taylor. I thought if I could humanize this defenseless creature in a certain way, my 2-year-old would better understand. It worked, OK, slightly. She seemed to be a lot gentler when I emphasized the “baby” part of the equation. And she called after her victim by name as she chased her down the hall, “Taaayylorr.”
Luckily, I had to head to work. Errr … uh … I mean, too bad I had to leave. Anyway, daddy is in charge with this one. He sent me a photo to assure me Taylor and our daughter were still in one piece. Revenge is his, though, as I am sure I am going to have to be the bad guy who takes Taylor away to grandma’s.