fuzzner

A few weeks ago, our friends emailed us with the news that they found a one-month-old kitten at a gas station. They already have two cats, so they were seeing if we'd be interested in being foster parents. Coincidentally, Fred and I had just talked the night before about getting a pet since we just moved to a pet friendly apartment, and we have more income coming in now that I've graduated from massage school.

A few hours later, we had this little guy stumbling around our apartment.

And really, he is a very little guy--so little that the Humane Society was unable to take him in, and he still needed to nurse from a bottle.

(Fred was apparently too mesmerized by Olympic diving to look at the camera.)

So here's the thing about getting a kitten: everyone wants to know what his name is.

Here's the thing about Fred and me: we didn't even think much about naming him until everyone asked.

When I asked Fred, the most clever man I know, what we should name our kitten, he thoughtfully responded, "Whiskers. Or Jaws."

My nieces offered suggestions, too.

Adri (age 5): Monsambler, Batonia, Garmon, Sam, or Fluffy Pants.
Teya (age 2): Cat.

One morning, the kitten pounced in our bed to wake us up. Fred said something like, "Hi, fuzz ball." It kind of stuck. We kept calling him "the fuzz ball," then "the fuzz," and now just "fuzz," so I guess his name is Fuzz, and I guess we are really into one-syllable-F-names around here.

These days, Fuzz is not as cute and cuddly in the previous video, as he's entered into the phase where he barrels around the apartment like something is on fire, and where he attacks inanimate objects like they're animate, and where he hides and pops out all teeth n' claws. I read that this is the developmental phase where kittens start practicing their hunting skills; unfortunately for us, we are the only moving things Fuzz sees. So ferocious. I don't feel safe in my home anymore, really.