Adoption: successful

Ah, yes.  My new kittens.  I suspect everyone has heard more than enough about them.  But, for those of you who are concerned about the success of the adoption, this final post (at least for a while) should bring some closure.

On schedule, I made the long (and beautiful) drive to Newhalem on Tuesday.  Anne and Tony arrived at almost the same time.  Greetings were exchanged.  The kittens in a large carrier were handed over, together with adoption certificates from the Okanogan County Animal Foster Care Service (together with a number of stern written warnings about proper care).  We turned our cars about, and headed home.

The five cats I've adopted in the past all came from animal shelters, where they had been confined in small cages.  They treated adoption as a release from prison, to be celebrated.  These kittens, however, were born into foster care.  They had lived pampered lives.  They knew not me, nor wished to.  They were about as pleased to arrive at my house as would be a shy eight-year-old sent off to summer camp against his will.

They hid.

By the end of the day, they were wrestling together -- their major past time -- but would bolt if I made any advances toward them.  The next morning, they approached me while I was on the floor reading the paper.  They accepted, very tentatively, pats on the head.  By Thursday they were following me from room to room, keeping an eye on my activities.

Today, first one and then the other approached me while I was sitting in a chair reading.  They fought for a while for sole possession of my lap.  One retreated to my ankles, the other curled up on my lap and immediately went to sleep.  (See photo.)

Things are working out well.  They eat well; they know all about litter boxes.  Their adoptive owner is relieved.

Their names?  Yes.  Well, they have been named Castor and Pollux, the twins, Gemini.  Those names seemed appropriate.  The Greek heroes were great fighters, and showed devotion to each other.  The names fit.

I'm happy.  The house seems more home-like.  And cats, unlike that 8-year-old camper, don't spend weeks being homesick.  We're all well; hope you are, too.