We moved into this house 5 months ago with a cat. A single, spayed cat. Tippy lives outside in the garage, which we figure is a nicer life than the one from which she was rescued. She was a wee kitten standing in the road — no homes anywhere in sight — as Bob barreled down it at 55 mph and I only urged him to swerve. We stopped, and somehow she ended up coming home with us.
Come spring this year a new kitty claimed our place as her own. We didn't find her; she found us. As soon as I found a vet who offered reasonable rates on spaying, it was too late. More later.
Now, we have known since Addy could walk that a rabbit would one day be added to our household. It was unavoidable. Her great uncle raises them and Uncle Dick and Aunt Maggie brought a bunny to Addy's 1st birthday party for her to play with. We were to give the green light when it was OK for her to have her own. My severe rabbit allergy stood in the way for a long time, but I finally gave in as it's getting better. Now Addy is 6 and a 4-H Cloverbud, so we gave the green light (or waved the white flag?) and on Thursday night added Buns to our list of garage dwellers. Buns (Addy named her, of course) is an 8-week old black-and-white Dutch. Very, very cute.
Either late in the night or early yesterday morning, the friendly cat that adopted us in the spring birthed four kittens. Although I made a nice nest for her in the garage and suggested other spots by leaving soft material around, she had them outside, under the kids' big yellow slide. Addy found them when she went out to play. Dori already knows that they're too little to touch, and gets concerned when they cry. She tells me I need to go to them.
We're still renting the home in town. Can you tell we're country people trapped in the city?