Meet Chewie and Yoda.
(guess who named them?)
Plus, the lady at the shelter told us they can grow to be the "size of a watermelons." Considering Emma's petite stature, I think this perplexed Brian and I. We've never had a cat greater than seven pounds. ...the size of a watermelon? Really? Game on, sister.
We kept them in the guest bedroom for the first week with plenty of food, water and toys. Every morning, I'd visit, whistle, and be greeted with silence. I cleaned the litter, freshened their food, and tidied up the place. They remained under the chair. I kind of felt like maid service but that's cool. They'll warm up soon, right? I don't need much back in return...
On Saturday, we opened the door to their room with great flourish ("Release the kitties!" Scotty yelled joyfully). After several hours, Chewie poked her head out, looked around, and then went back under the chair.
Sunday, however, was a different story. On Sunday, they turned into Frat Cats.
And by that, I mean they party all night and sleep all day. The sound of their tiny, tiny footsteps echo in our hallway at all hours of the night. I have no idea what they are doing, but it sounds like elephants thumping down the stairs. I almost tripped over one of the furballs on Monday morning as I made my way down the dark stairs on my way to Hill Day. They ripped apart the Packer Christmas tree in the loft ("shiny balls! Garland! This is AWESOME!") and enjoy throwing their food around with reckless abandon. This morning, I found my beloved blue orchid tipped over with wood chips scattered across the kitchen tile. Picture frames are upside down, pens are scattered...it's like Kittynado hit our house.
So now, every morning, my routine has evolved into freshen water, clean litter, tidy room, but also fix whatever in our house has been unhinged by these tiny creatures. Because when that sun goes down, it's on. The Party Cats are ready to rage.
This is a stage, right?