Animal House

So. Only days after we had to relinquish Goatson to the animal shelter (a traumatic experience to say the least), I was getting ready for work on Saturday when Bren and I heard high-pitched mewing outside the door to the bonus room, which opens onto the driveway. Turns out this scared little girl was lodged in the undercarriage of my car:



She looks like a Laser Cat right here. I guess I need some photography pointers from Andrea or Renee. She looks a little less evil here, safe inside:



We're calling her Chevy. She fits into my cupped hands, so she can't be more than a few weeks old. She eats, but I'm having a hard time getting her to drink. Bren is allergic to cats, of course, so we aren't sure if we can keep her...but neither of us want to go anywhere near the shelter for a while. In the meantime, she's already figured out how to poop in her litter box, which is awesome. She is a scholar.

Since she is currently sitting on my shoulder, purring like a motorboat and licking my neck and ear, I'll let her impart some wisdom:

Sddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddd gddddddd,tgedoo ````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````

Deep.