So, we didn't exactly rescue the kittens. They were doing pretty fine on their own, with a huge, wild backyard to romp around, a mother kit to lick them, and plenty of oddly painted rooms to explore [you don't really want to know what one can do with some black and gold paint, a sponge, and the floor]. But Meg and I were on a mission to capture ourselves some kittays to keep our other baby kits company.
Somehow, finding some in Jacksonville was not on our agenda, but finding some in Brunswick was just what the vet had ordered.
The day started with a visit with the fluff balls, watching them scatter across the back porch and out the very miniature kitten door [about the size of 4x6 photo, perfect for the babies], back inside to their meowing mother, where we would scoop them up to investigate our bounty.
Meg and Gypsy.
We took a momentary detour to the waterfront, to get some lunch and tasty adult bevs over a card game of Aquarius [if you don't know, poor you], get blown over by the mighty winds of the Atlantic, to get some ice cream, and then climb up to the top of the [haunted?] lighthouse for an amazing view.
Windblown.
Ian rescuing me from the sand whale.
[Light.]
My battle with heights.
When we got back to the house, the kittens were a little tired out from all their romping and we happily cuddled with them for another hour before bidding adieu.
Bowl o' Kits.
Marco's favorite pose.
Passed out fluffs.
They were still too young to take home [bummer, and would require another trip to Brunswick only weeks later], but our hearts were set, and our minds made up. The little kittays would be ours. Argh.
[Photos courtesy Meg Armstrong.]
