Poor shot, but they were hiding under the toilet.
One of the insane interesting things I've done in the past few years is to foster kittens for the Humane Society of Central Oregon.
These are kittens who are too young to be adopted and need ongoing care. Sometimes they come with their mom, sometimes not. Depending, they may need to be bottle-fed, weaned or just socialized.
I'm known as the go-to gal for socializing the feral kittens. They come to me all hissy and terrified and they leave happy, cuddly, well-adjusted kittens ready to find their "forever family" (as we say in the adoption biz). Or at least they're supposed to. Every so often there is a kitten who prefers to stay wild, thank you very much. Those cats get sent to "the barn," a supposedly-real place where they can catch mice and play with cows all day.
So I now have four little hissies that I'm working on. It's best to separate them so they have to rely on you for companionship, but it's a painful process. Hearing pitiful kitten cries from four different spots in your house is a little nerve-wracking. And then you have to go around to each one and cuddle/feed/play with it. Good thing I'm unemployed!
My household and the whole neighborhood gets involved so the kitties can get used to dogs, cats and kids. It's fun, really. You get the cutest part of them and then when they turn into destructive maniacs you trade them in for fresh ones.
That reminds me of a story about Henry, my (adopted) son. I was explaining a few years back that it was time to take the kittens back to the shelter to be adopted by their new families. He was silent for a moment, then asked in a worried tone: "Am I going to have to get a new family too?" AWwwww.
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