Soda Pop

KK found a baby kitten in the alley behind our house about two weeks ago.  I was in the kitchen making dinner when she brought it in, curled in her hand, tiny, near death.  There was a crust over one eye.  It was skinny, dirty, barely able to stand.  I said no immediately, and firmly.  I figured it wouldn't live and they'd have to watch it die, that it might infect the other cats, yada, yada, yada, but how can you say no?  You can't say no.

The Pet ER said he might not survive the first night, but he did, and he almost didn't survive the first weekend either, due to problems I won't go into here (other than to say the vet had me cleaning his butt for him, and at one point actually dabbing his butt with sugar, to reduce inflammation).

So.  He's growing like a weed.  Probably weighs three times as much as he did when  KK brought him in.  The other cats are not too happy about this turn of events, but they'll get over it.

His name is Ginger Ale.  I call him Soda Pop.  Mostly we just call him baby kitty.