So this afternoon Mrs put Oliver’s food in a dish, and then put a chunk of it on her finger to lure him toward the dish. Oliver’s evidently excited about eating real food — he goes in with both paws.

What a messy little critter!

Finally learned to suck on the bottle, and chews on the nipple a little too.

Still hasn’t pooped.  Plenty of liquids, but no solids yet.

On her drive back, she sends me a picture message — she’s got the kitten.  He’s three weeks old, and won’t eat from his momma.  He’s not sick, for momma hadn’t kicked him out, but he just won’t eat.  Her gal pals from college arranged to get him for her, knowing how the passing of Phydeaux crushed her.  He’s part Siamese and part manx.  Cross-eyed, and got no tail.
Grrr… I’m all stewed up now; I’ve got my speech prepared. Then the phone rings. Ready to blow? Yep.

Unexpected (but good to have) relief: it’s Uncle Wiggly. Managed to vent 80% of my frustration to him, rather than to Mrs. Thanks, Uncle Wiggly, for bearing the brunt of that. Sorry you had to put up with my rant, but thankful you did.

Then, the arrival. Bad move on my part: meeting Mrs at the bottom stair, and saying “you’d better have a home for that thing.” [Very] brief discussion, followed by mild rant, followed by the water works. Crap. Every puff of wind taken out of my sail. Grrrrr.

Tit-for-tat: Mrs says: “just so you know, that’s how I felt when you brought home that motorcycle.” More tears. Ouch. I should have known it would come to that.

Decided to put on a lid and go for a ride, taking the tit-for-tat one more notch. Better decision: don’t. Never ride when PO’d.

It’s going to be a long night. Mrs angry, self angry, kitten squealing, and threat of bad weather this week.