Who found my old Beanie Babies?
Teeny-tiny little bundles of fuzz, four of 'em! They're twelve days old at this point, so their eyes are open(ish), though the internet assures me they're not actually seeing much right now. They track me when I'm with them, though.
The tabby is Gypsy, a cat from the animal shelter where my sisters have volunteered for the past two years. The shelter can't adopt out kittens until they're seven weeks old, so until then we're fostering them. She Who Must Be Obeyed, our previously-feral cat who hates other felines with a passion, doesn't seem to have noticed them yet. It helps that they're staying in our store room in the basement, behind several doors that are hard to breach without opposable thumbs.
Do I sense insubordination?
The kittens aren't actually old enough to be fun yet. You pick them up, and they mew for their mother after they decide your chin isn't soft enough to cuddle. They're fun to watch, though. Their jerky, uncoordinated movements are reminiscent of animatronic puppets as they worm over each other in search of...something. Or nothing, most of the time.
But, you know, kittens. It's hard not to go aaawwwwwww every time I walk in the room. And it is entertaining to see how they end up. I can't count how many times I've walked in to see three of them lying next to Gypsy, in a row, and just as I start to panic about the fourth being hidden in a suitcase or something...nope, it's just being slept on top of.
I'm pretty sure kittens of this age don't actually have to breathe yet. That's how they're able to survive when being smothered by two siblings/three siblings/their mother.
For daily kitten updates, pictures, and a lovely video featuring my foot (possibly with kittens), see my sister's blog: A Cornucopia of Kittens.
What's that? Another picture? Well, since you insist.
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