Ouch

One of my kittens is nicer. The other one is not. The nice one, who plays dead when I catch him, I have decided, gets the better name: Graffiti. The one that scratched me unmericlessly and bit my hand is stuck with Scribbles. It was his choice, really.

While avoiding work today, I found out that in regards to taming the kittens, I have done absolutely everything, almost, but not quite completely and utterly wrong. Apparently my kittens could be called wild, and there is a whole approach to taming feral kittens of which I was heretofore unaware.

Having chased them around the basement for 45 minutes, and enduring multiple lacerations about my fingers, palms, wrists, and lower arms, they are now secured in my master ensuite and pretty pissed. They shall remain there until they can be called part of the family. In general, family members do not bite each other nor hiss when hugged. They also do not wedge themselves under the hot water heater.

For an hour, I read to them from The Salmon of Doubt (which had been mercifully returned to the big city library). They didn't attack me and barely hissed, so I'm taking that as a good sign. Incidentally, this was my first recitation in that bathroom and the acoustics are pretty good.

After we drop Frankie off at karate, we're going to go to the grocery store where I will procure some Heinz babyfood (I'm thinking beef and chicken) as a treat for them for not biting me anymore today.