The other day I didn’t have any milk for my morning coffee. This is unacceptable. I leapt into the car to make a swift run for some half and half (because if you’re out you may as well live it up, right?).

Three blocks from my house, I see this little grey lump in the road. A rock, I tried to tell myself, but I’ve rescued enough cats to recognize the “my tummy hurts” sphinx pose……

Little guy was literally in the middle of an intersection. I disembarked, got within three feet, he scuttled to a side road. I was tempted to leave him, because, caffeine, but he was still in the middle of a road.

More reaching, more scuttling, more cajoling, more slipsliding away, and finally I went back to my house and fetched a can of wet cat food. The minute I stepped away, he buried his face in it up to his ears. I had no trouble scooping him and the can up, and in fact he wasn’t all that bothered because he was still scarfing down. I installed him in the upstairs guestroom, made a quick litter box, got some water arranged, and went to go get milk.

It was 6:45 am. By the time I got coffee in me, I realized two things: we had just taken in another cat, after agreeing to a hiatus because of three untimely deaths within four months the previous year, and Jack didn’t know he was there.

Jack came through about 7:30, as is his wont, greeted me, poured his coffee, and went out to the front porch for his usual sit-and-sip. I pondered how important honesty is to a good marriage.

Finally I came clean and asked him to call our vet to make an appointment. We couldn’t get one for a week. So I spent time working from that bedroom, so he’d get used to me. At first, he was pretty sure we were murderous cannibals and he’d been catnapped, but as the week progressed, he didn’t bother disembarking from the bed when I came in—so long as I didn’t try to touch him.

The week passed, and I knew what was coming, but life is what it is. The morning of the vet visit, the slow creeping building of trust was shattered by me making a lunge for the little guy. He shrieked and flew under the bed. Where we keep everything we don’t use but once a year. I began moving Halloween decorations, the punch bowl, and an under-storage box full of special sheets.

The kitten inched away with every move until he was hidden between the heavy queen bed’s left foot and the wall. We lunged, he raced to the other foot. I moved the enormous piece of furniture a few inches. He shot past me and around the side.

I followed, stumbling over boxes removed from under the bed, upending his litter box and showering myself with…. Stuff. As I grabbed the newel post of the bed to keep from falling headlong INTO what was left in the litter box, it came off in my hands. I reeled sideways into Jack’s CD shelf, knocking them in every direction.

The kitten dove under his record collection. Jack reached in, screamed, and withdrew a bloody hand, looking petulant and sucking on his wound. I may have said something unkind to him at this moment, and he may have said something rude back. The clock now read 9:30, the time of the little bastard’s appointment.

In pure desperate fury, I reached my hand under the records, scruffed him, and dragged him out, flailing his four paws like the eight arms of Kali. I shoved him into the carrier as he called on all the feline deities throughout history to save him, and off he went to the vet.

“You’re late. What’s his name?” the surly receptionist asked.

Without hesitation, Jack answered, “Dammit.”

(Addendum: Little Dammit is eight weeks old, has Russian blue fur, is disease-free, litterbox-trained, and living his best life under the guest bed with lots of toys and all the food he wants. We have high hopes of getting to pet him next week.)