This morning at six: seven kittens.
This morning at seven: four kittens.
Three little kittens, nowhere to be found. All day.
First thing my middle schoolers asked, when they came home: If I'd seen the three grey kittens.
Apparently three little kittens decided to follow them to the bus stop. My twelve year old tried to shoo them off, and wanted to bring them back, but knowing how very little fondness I have for having eight cats on my hands, and also for driving him, should he miss the bus, he continued on his way.
Good choice, I tell him. It's kind of sad to think of the kittens becoming dinner for the neighbor's dog, or the eagles that haunt the trees behind us, but such is life. Secretly I can't help but thinking, three down, four to go.
I know. It's terrible. They really are so sweet. For now.
Not that I had to feel guilty long; a few hours later, my boys came home from a little jaunt through the sagebrush in the empty lots next to us.
Carrying three little kittens.
Live kittens, mind you.
They came running when they heard the boys' voices. Lost, apparently. I don't know what they did all day, because if they had been crying, the dogs/mink/raptors around here would have found them in an instant. They were ravenous.
Seven pm: Seven little kittens.