Not all that long ago my sister send me a text.
“you want an orange kitty?”
And for some reason I still can’t quite figure out… I said yes.
So I met her at my parents’ house and picked up a teeny, tiny 3-week old lump of orange fur that I decided to name “Louie”. (Also known as “Phillip” or “Cat.”)
He was so young (much too young to have left his mother) that I had to give him kitten formula. He liked it. And he grew.
He slept a lot.
And when he wasn’t sleeping, he was attacking Taylor.
But quickly went back to sleeping.
He discovered the toilet…
… and Christmas lights…
… the joys of tissue paper…
… and boxes of all shapes and sizes.
Now he’s over a year old. I’m not sure when he was actually born… but he’s probably around 15 months now.
When I first took him into the vet at about 4 weeks old he weighed .2 pounds or something crazy like that. Maybe .6? Anyway, it wasn’t much. Now he weighs in at a whopping 10.6 pounds! No wonder it hurts when he steps on my chest…
He’s still crazy, still a terror kitty, still likes to attack Taylor… but he’s still pretty cute.