Memo to self: Never attempt to pick up a feral kitten without gloves unless I want to have my hand shredded.
Wednesday morning and I'd sorted out relevant details with my mother's solicitor over the phone and was getting ready to go out for coffee with my ex-colleagues from the library, Denise & Sylvia, when Phil, one of the charity's dog people, rang to say he was bringing a feral kitten round for me to look after. First I'd heard of it but I went to the garage, set up the cage, put in bedding, litter, water, and food. Turned out ot be a cute long haired black and white about 3 months old which, Phil assured me, had been handled without problem.
When he said 'handled' he didn't mean picked up. I left it to settle down, went down town for coffee with my friends, came back and checked out the kitten. It was sitting in the cat litter having shit in its bedding and knocked the water dish over. So I picked it up and put it in a cat carrier and then went to wash my copiously bleeding left hand.
Later I phoned a guy who'd got in touch with us a few ago. He'd been feeding ferals and de-ferralling feral kittens which he then homed and been doing it for 11 years. He agreed to take this one and we would supply all the food, litter etc it needed. Sorted.
In less than an hour, I'm setting off for Gateshead and my mother's funeral.
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