kid wants cat and vice versa

I feel like a line from Rocky Horror tonight:

Dr. Everett Scott: We’ve got to get out of this trap! Before this… decadence… saps our wills. I’ve got to be strong, und try to… hang on! Or else, my mind may well *snap*! Und my life… will be lived…
[singing]
for ze *thrills*…

I don’t know how much longer I can hold out against them.

No, not the transexuals from Transylvania. I’m being double teamed by cuteness, by a blue-eyed boy and a butterscotch cat hell-bent on moving into my house. I’m not getting as much backup as I thought I could dig up from friends and family, either. My friend Kat flat out said, “I hate cats. But if my husband weren’t allergic to them, I’d get one.” Ouch. My mother didn’t say, “What are you, nuts?” when I told her I was being ganged up on by little creatures human and feline. “Well, animals and babies bring out a very tender side in him,” she said.

I mentioned it to another friend, a childless friend, a friend whose house is impeccably appointed, who has Real Art on the walls and Beautiful Furniture on the floors and even an Oriental Rug or two of traceable pedigree and known lineage. “I thought you already had a cat,” he laughed. “Don’t get one. They scratch the furniture. They do whatever they want, really, no matter what you wish…”

My son and I were sitting on our front porch shucking corn this afternoon when this little mewling thing came calling to us from across the street. This butter and cinnamon-colored little caramel of a thing, all sideways slant and long, thin face and big tawny eyes loped across the street as though to say, “Hey, there you are, I’ve been waiting for you all day! Where’d you hide the key?” I watched my son lose his heart. I’ve never heard such a tender little voice from his rough and tumble mouth. He got her a bowl of water and the two of them walked around the front porch and yard together. He would be telling her some story and she’s stop, look at his face, just as though she were listening to him and hanging on every word. She climbed right into my lap and purred there, panting from the heat and rumbling with her little motor going. When we went inside to get cleaned up, she curled into his old stroller and peeked over the edge.
“I’m taking good care of that little kitten,” my son announced solemnly. “You can’t come in, little kitten, because you haven’t been to the doctor’s and you’re going to scratch all the furniture. But don’t worry,” he whispered to her. “I’m going to buy you cat food tomorrow.”

Her ears look a mess, but that might just be because I’m not in the habit of looking into cat ears. It’s all a little bit ‘alien planet’ in there for me. She’s been scratched a bit in a fight, nothing serious, but it looks like some other cat had hold of her ear at one point or another. She’s a little thin, with big paws and a heart-shaped face.

She followed us to the end of the block when we walked out to go to a friend’s for dinner, but the King of Everything stood there, his feet splayed steady apart, his little fist on his hip, his other hand out in a policeman’s gesture–STOP. “Don’t follow us, little cat.” So she didn’t. She watched us from the corner, meowing at us and pacing back and forth. The Kid blew her a kiss.

He’s asleep in bed now, my KoE, and thankfully didn’t throw a fit when the little cat wasn’t on our doorstep. “It’s ok, we’ll get her cat food tomorrow,” he stated with the full confidence that only a little kid can command. And though I didn’t admit it to myself at the time, I went back out a little while ago and stood, scanning the street in search of a little delicious streak of caramel cat. She limned up from the night, a little sketch of a thing filing in as she poured towards me from the end of the block, meowing as she ran, across the street and up my steps to curl onto my lap as though she owns me.

I am trying very hard not to take her to the vet on Tuesday.