We failed. We were supposed to provide the kitten's name to the cat hospital tonight but we're still having trouble finding a perfect name for this perfect kitten. We know we need to hurry up before he's old enough for an identity crisis.
KITTEN: "Who am I?"
PEOPLE: "We have no idea."
KITTEN: "Okay. That's it. I'm running away to a house where they'll call me Fluffy."
Have I mentioned that the perfect kitten is a GASSY kitten? We've been noticing it off and on since he arrived and figured it was just a normal kitten phenomenon since his parasite tests were negative. But he was quite the stinky (if adorable) spectacle in the vet's crowded waiting room, and there were more episodes in the exam room while the vet felt around and was surprised by his full gas tank. When we could breathe again, she decided to treat him for coccidia just in case. Let's hope it works. If it doesn't, we know she'll get to the bottom of it, so to speak.
Don't worry, we won't name him Methane, Xenon, or Argon.
In other news, Wendy is out and about, eating with the boys, and not growling. She hasn't exactly befriended the kitten but she's more tolerant. I'm sorry to report that Possum went after her this morning. ("Possum," I said, trying to distract him, "What can she be doing to upset you? The election is over.") She growled and complained as he straddled her and bit her neck — the classic dominance move, where one cat asserts superior status over another. Wendy doesn't question Possum's being Top Cat, so I think he did it because he wants her to be nicer to His Kitten. We do, too.