Eight weeks my ass
I've ripped into 'Ratched' a lot; this is part of why I do and why I consider her one of the worst people I've ever met in life.
Franklin first came to me as quite the malnourished little fella. Jury's still out, but most people I've talked to, both those who met him young and those who have only seen pictures, have told me, "There is no way that kitten was eight weeks old. She's lying." Eight week old kittens don't need bottle-fed milk.
Big yawn from a little kitty
Which makes sense—during our early time together, he was too small to even keep himself warm and had to be kept in goofy places like blankets, pockets, or an old beanie my aunt gave me so that he wouldn't get too cold, especially when I was in class. I drew a bit on stories I'd heard about what will help a pet bond with you and it's quite possible Frank thinks I'm his mother, or at least perceives me in a similar sense (I did have to cradle him and bottle-feed). Either way, he is most likely not a ragdoll as I was originally told, but he is almost dog-like in his behaviors and loyalty, and I probably don't help that out by routinely referring to him as a dog, which could cause quite an identity crisis if not for the fact he's a cat and doesn't speak English.
Seriously, he was a pocket kitten at times
I bring up Franklin in part for his background before me.
Ratched had begun talking to me about Franklin toward the end of my six months living in the U District. Told me about how she had this wonderful friend, such a kind and caring woman, who took care of animals and strays and she had happened to take in a pregnant cat who was going to give birth soon. She wanted to know if I'd take one of the kittens.
This photo was definitely not staged; the cat had a serious addiction problem.
At the time, wasn't too interested—I viewed myself as more a dog guy (though I love 'em all, especially the brilliance of my "crowmies" because of how brilliant they are; love 'em. I would never want to encounter a hippo or a polar bear in real life, though, my understanding is that by the time you spot them, you were dead like a half hour ago).
His amateur modeling career didn't take off
But I digress: I've barely moved into the new apartment at Keeler's before I'm hearing that she needs to get this kitten rehomed. Her friend was not actually her friend but a backyard breeder who she had been keeping tabs on and reported to Animal Control—and she'd 'rescued' the kittens before they were taken away to Animal Control or a shelter (considering the number of no-kill shelters in the area, this is suspicious).
The whole thing seemed odd, but I'm a few fries short of a happy meal and was considering taking in the kitten by that point, so I just didn't think about it.
When Frank came to me, I got a better idea of the real reason he needed to be rehomed.
Ratched's children were horrible toward the poor fella to the point I had to separate him from them. Her oldest kept throwing himself down on his knees, rearing up, and hissing while he struck at Frank, terrifying the poor guy. According to Ratched, this is just normal, whatever, some kids take longer to learn how to be gentle with animals.
I don't accept this. When I was that age, I had a kitten crawl on me and didn't do anything because I knew they were small and defenseless and you can't do that. It's why I didn't like cats for a long time and avoided them. You're never too young to learn to be kind and respectful to others, whether they're human or animal.
This is not to say I've always been the best to Frank, from how harshly I tried to get him to walk on a leash to the times he's sneaked outside, gotten a little nasty, and I've wrapped my arm in three or four shirts, then swatted him into a kennel and locked him upstairs till he mellowed out (he's a cat, they've got like twenty extendable razor blades, I don't fuck with that shit. It's like a mini, super-charged Wolverine on steroids).
We've also had our good times, which outcount the bad, but I still owe him better
Joking aside, that little goober has grown quite a bit. He still gets frustrated with my shit sometimes—and who can blame him? But he's also shown himself to be a pretty mellow fella: whether it be other cats like Crooky (RIP) or dogs like Charlie, so that's pretty cool. Even if he does piss and shit in a box like, well, an animal.
Ignore the burger wrapped someone took out of the garbage while I was in bed
Nurturing and positivity can lead to wonderful things, both for us and those around us, people, animal, plant, whatever; the same goes for the damage caused by neglect and negativity.
Sure, there's always a dandelion that manages to fight its way through the concrete, but why force such arduous and unnecessary trials?
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