Super-poly-feline-kitten-saturation

Here at the Foster Farmlet, we are currently experiencing a phenomenon known to many who live in rural areas, but is relatively new to us. I think the official word for it is Super-poly-feline-kitten-saturation. Basically, for those of you who are unsure of what exactly that entails, it is a remarkable thing how in a time period of just one week, two innocuous cats can (apparently) spontaneously self-generate into a small herd of 10 mostly black, hairy, scrabbling mewing pests. This would ordinarily be a non-issue with me, as the cats and I have a sort of truce going on, where they don’t bother me, and I don’t bother them, but when you have 10 cats on your front porch, and you are attempting to work on that front porch, you cant help but interfere in each other’s lives.
Of course the kids are thrilled with all this and are always also on the front porch, building little structures for the “pwecioush wittle tings”, utilizing my tools and other things that I typically discourage them from messing with, such as the small step ladder that I used to climb up onto the railing with, was found necessary to be utilized as a barrier to keep the villainous dog that harasses the kittens off of the porch. That would have been fine, except it all happened in such a short time period that I climbed up the step ladder, onto the railing, and then stepped right back down with the expectation of it still being there. It wasn’t, and the little fur-balls didn’t even have the decency to attempt to soften my fall.
These kittens have the usual names for cats. I’m sure every household has cats named Fighter, Fighter Socks, Snotty, Snotty-Eyes, Black, Todd, Runtie, and Wolfie. I have a fool-proof method that I have had great success for changing cat’s names with in the past. If I say “no, we’re gonna call that cat Such-and-Such” it is met with great protest and complaint. But if I just start calling it a new name, my children will ask me why I call the cat by that name. My response? I just tell them that is what The Chickens call her. The children all are fully aware that I am fluent in Chickenese, and while I cant actually speak it, I can understand it quite well. They take all this as naturally as if I told them that “ticks are bad”, as I have been telling them this ever since we first got chickens. It works great, works every time. After all, who are they to argue with the chickens? It stands to reason that if the chickens call the cats by a name, that the cats must be in communication with the chickens, right?
I personally believe that every father should have at least a few chickens around, if just to share a little blame with at certain awkward moments. We currently have one kitten that I feel obliged to change its name to “Skunky”. The thing is, I was painting the colomns of the porch down low, and this black kitten thought my paintbrush a delightful toy, while I was using it. What can I say; I succumbed to the terrible, heavy-pressing temptation. My problem now is even my children, who fully believe that I am a very gifted “Chicken Whisperer” refuse to believe that the chickens were able to wield the paint-brush well enough to paint the bright white stripe down “Black’s” back. I would be pleased to hear from any of you some other methods of avoiding culpability in such situations.
It is so hard to be the responsible parent when you get such a delightful variety of responses to your irresponsibility. Just this morning, we had such a moment when I made an encouraging statement to my kids about the fun of eating great quantities of fresh beets wouldn’t always be found until much later away from the table (to put it delicately). I look around after such a statement, and I see the cold, disapproving stare of my eldest, the sweet, accepting smile of my next oldest, the rolling eyes of my wife, and then the mischievous, infectious cackle of the three year boy. A regular cornucopia of emotional responses. How can a daddy resist? It was just like the time that I felt prompted to eat an entire table napkin at the dinner table in front of my kids. At least it was a Wendy’s napkin (brown) and I could claim it was whole wheat. It was hysterical at the moment, but now I have to keep explaining to them why it isn’t ok for them to eat napkins. And it can be quite embarrassing to be forever explaining to other adults why my kids are perpetually trying to eat their and everyone else’s napkins. It just doesn’t look good, any way you slice it. I’ve tried blaming it on the chickens, but I haven’t had a lot of success convincing adults of that yet. Later, Dan Foster