A new meow

New cat Yesterday, I jokingly told Mark that I'd gone to the dump (the source of our current cat) and found another cat, who I was now hiding in the barn. No, no --- I changed my mind --- I'd stolen sweet little Bonnie from Mark's mom and had her hidden in the barn. We both laughed and thought no more about it.

But this morning as I started to move the chicken tractors through winter mud, I heard a plaintive meow come from the barn. I'd just left Huckleberry sleeping soundly on the sofa, but I thought it was possible he'd slipped out of the house and gotten his dainty paws wet or been chased by Lucy. So I told the chickens to wait on me and went to check the noise out.
New cat
Cowering behind our array of boxes and cast off belongings was...Bonnie??? The little cat had most of her markings, a white vest and white paws on an otherwise black fur coat. But this little cat was smaller and oh so skinny when I finally tempted it to let me pick it up. It was also a boy, just the same size Huckleberry was when I found him --- reaching that gawky adolescent stage where people tend to drop them off. (Later, Mark found a towel on the road a mile from our house, one that hadn't been there yesterday, confirming our belief that the little cat got dumped.)

Just two weeks ago, Mark's mom asked us if we wanted another cat. And without even checking with each other Mark and I both said "No!" Huckleberry's a handful all by himself. And yet --- if a cat walks a mile through the woods to find us, can we really tell it that we're going to renege on the contract humanity made with cats a few thousand years ago? The truth is, I'm a sucker for strays. Looks like we'll be taking the new cat to the vet tomorrow, and if it gets a clean bill of health introducing it to Huckleberry soon after. I guess I should be a little more careful what I joke about!