When last we met on these pages, I was contemplating the antics of kittens. “Antics” is the accepted term for the domestic devastation occurring on an hourly basis in this old lady’s curated domicile. What it is, is ransacking.

They are adorable. They are sweet-tempered. They are significantly better behaved than any sober person would be led to expect out of new mammals with no perspective. Their antics would be immensely entertaining if it were someone else’s house they were laying waste to. But it is mine.

However, I had a plan.

It was time for their Adult Surgery.

The animal shelter I found them at offers free neutering services, ostensibly, but they’re way backed up, and would promise surgery only for female animals. And if I got on a list, they might have an opening in a year. I got on the list.

Wally, of course, as my female cat, has her own opening, which is the problem.

A mere week later, the shelter called to offer me appointments for both her and Clifford. I was surprised. “We prioritize households where there is both a male and female cat,” they explained.

What? What are you SAYING about sweet little Clifford? She’s his SISTER! He LOVES her! How dare you!

They dared. I booked the appointments. I read up.

Boy cats get their little nuts pulled out of their little sacks and no one even bothers stitching them up because it isn’t much of a divot. Girl cats get the whole treatment: uterus and ovaries nipped right out. Human females given the same treatment are just able to sit up and take soup in a week. Surely, I thought, this would slow them down.

They were a little tipsy when I brought them home. By the next morning they had strengthened into a Level Five again. There was nothing to be done. It was like telling an electron to settle down. Toys are strewn all over the house. It looks like the Plastic Fairy threw up in here.

I checked their Personal Sites. Maybe the surgeons had missed something. Clifford’s balls were indeed shaved but so was his belly. Did they have to go spelunking for an undescended testicle? And can you call it “undescended” in a cat? They’re so horizontal. It could only go sideways at best. Maybe his testicles were properly scrotumed but he bounced them back out. Seems possible.

Evidently they shave the belly to get a nice green tattoo in there, to alert future cat spelunkers that the deed has already been done. Wally has a tattoo too. Neither of them says anything about Mom.

But this all might work out after all. Wally has taken to retrieving cat toys to my lap so I don’t have to get up to throw them again. Clifford found and presented the gold ring I lost months ago, before they were even born. And I’ve begun behavior modification, with some success.

The behavior being modified is all mine. This place has never been tidier. The dishes are put away. The desk is cleared off. The butter’s in the fridge. The door to the bathroom is closed. The toilet seat is down. There is nothing at all on the kitchen counter, except the one little potted hardy fuchsia I rooted from a cutting last summer to plant next spring. These guys have straightened me out better than my mom was able to in eighteen years.

I am going to miss that fuchsia.