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That's got to be it.
I mean, what else could he be doing outside right now?
ROMAN
"I'm serious, Chandler, let it go."
It's hard to be stern and scold a sixteen-ounce ball of fluff who's got a thread of loose yarn dangling out the corner of her mouth.
Or his mouth.
Sex is yet to be determined.
Either way, they're just too damn cute.
These little ones' ears only started pointing up last week, their blue eyes still struggle to stay open, and testicles, should they arrive, won't be visible for another few weeks.
I remove the thread and carefully place Monica back into the pen with her brothers and sisters. Phoebe and Ross are busy licking themselves, while Joey, a stunning onyx black, is sitting alone in the corner, eyes closed, not giving a fuck about anyone or anything. Little dude…or dudette, might just be my fave.
I gather up Rachel, the last one I have to feed and poop. On this watch, at least. At three weeks of age, these six little kittens need to be bottle fed every five hours.
Sound bad? Just last week, it was every three hours. I swear I've never been more tired in my life.
Rachel is a beautiful dark, sandy blonde color and has always been easy to feed, hence leaving her to the end. I pick up the bottle and she starts suckling away. This one's always had a big appetite.
I don't know what led some garbage human to dump these just-been-born kitties at the shelter last week, but after they got the all clear at the clinic, I took it upon myself to look after them.
Daytime is fine. Bishop's got paid staff who can care for them. Nights are when it gets tricky, since Bishop can't afford to pay staff to cover the hours. I told him I'd take care of them, which earned me not only his thanks, but also Fulton's undying love. He is one seriously cat-obsessed dude.
It's not a big deal and nothing I can't handle with an alarm clock and copious amounts of coffee. I've only got to power through the next few weeks, and then these guys and gals will be old enough to handle a night on their own without requiring feeding and care.
"All right, buddy or buddyess," I murmur once Rachel is fed. "That's theinside of things taken care of. How about you give me someoutaction?"
Because yes, three-week-old kittens don't just need to be fed, they also need to be pooped. If I don't help them out with it, they could die. I grab a fresh warm cloth and gently massage it in small circles near her anus.
"It's all good, Rach," I whisper. "Don't be shy. Everyone needs to poop. I promise you, in a few weeks from now we'll all look back on this and laugh. One day, I'll bring it up in front of your friends when I pick you up from kitty day care and you'll groan and call me the most embarrassing cat dad ever. It's the cycle of life. It's a beautiful thing."
Rachel takes care of business, and I carefully plop her back into the enclosure with the others. I tidy up the table I've been using and check to make sure the supplies are stocked for tomorrow, which they are, before huddling over the enclosure one last time.
I stick my finger in and two of the kittens come up to suckle it despite just being fed. "All right, you guys. Sleep well. I'll be back in five hours."
I look over at Joey and give him a goodnight stroke with my index finger. He curls up even more, wriggling his butt at me, like he's telling me to hurry up and fuck off already. I'm disturbing their beauty sleep.
I check the temperature of the room one last time. It's set to seventy-five degrees, which is perfect, then flick off the lights. At least the shelter is less than a hundred feet from the house. It'd suck if I had to drive somewhere. I mean, I'd still do it, but it'd make things a lot harder.
I slip in quietly through the back door. Locky's probably already gone to bed, but he's left the lights on. The kitchen looks like a bomb went off in it. Despite the mess, I smile to myself. It's amazing the things you pick up about someone when you live with them, even if we have barely seen each other.
Things I could never learn from stalking alone.
For instance, he's messy. Kitchen, living, dining room, AKA the Golden Triangle that is Lachlan Healy. At the end of the day, I can map out where he's been and what he's been doing based on the trail of dishes, books, and clothes he leaves scattered about.
Another nugget I've picked up is that he's a terrible singer. A terrible andvery loudsinger, because no, I don't have cameras installed in his bathroom. His voice simply carries. It can't carry a tune to save itself, but it is able to penetrate through the walls and invade my eardrums.
But the best thing I've discovered about him is that he's thoughtful. When I mentioned in passing that I didn't have time to make breakfast in the morning, what did I wake up to the next day?
A note on the counter telling me to look in the fridge. I opened the fridge to find a row of jars lined up neatly on the second shelf. There was another note on one of them, telling me they were overnight oats, and to look down a shelf. One shelf down, there were sandwich bags filled with strawberries, blueberries, and a sliced-up banana. With a note to accompany them, of course. That note told me to mix the fruit into the jars, add some honey or peanut butter—or both—to the mix, and I had breakfast to go.
It's been nice getting to work with a full belly and not counting down the seconds until my lunch break because I'm so freaking famished.
