So now there’s cat shit all over my internet.

Which is better than what was on there the week I was researching whale penises.

However, just as the internet surmised, I was definitely inclined to click on the cat shit. These first few weeks with my kittens I’ve had lots of questions, and the internet had lots of expensive answers. I’ve learned stuff. Until recently, for instance, I was unaware that there was such a thing as feline acne. I wouldn’t think it would be too disfiguring, under the fur and circumstances.

But the internet does have many commercial suggestions for the new kitten owner. Here’s an example:

8 pcs/Set Cat Repellent Mat Tip Spikes High Elasticity Free Splice Foldable Round Head Dog Cat Scat

Well, I, for one, am going to be very disappointed when the Chinese start cleaning up their English content with AI. All I know for sure about this item is it has eight pieces. After that I’m at sea. It’s either standard advertising copy or it’s a list of rejected names for quarks.

Toys, toys, toys! Keeping your cat entertained is paramount for discouraging utter mayhem. Which is why I believe the makers of the Rave Cave are on the wrong track with consumers seeking a peaceful home environment. The Rave Cave is a multi-sensory tunnel for active cats who love to party. It features motion-activated music, a crinkle floor, a light show, and a disco ball. They sell this. Somebody’s doin’ the hustle.

At least I don’t worry about them fighting. They get along like, um, a house on fire. But, although they are siblings, they’re not the same. The differences between them were evident immediately, and they persist.

Wally plans to set sail and discover a new continent. First Mate Clifford will rock himself into a stupor watching the sail snap.

Wally is working on perfecting her triple salchow-double toe loop combination. Clifford’s ear got turned inside-out an hour ago and he feels like something’s off but doesn’t know what to do about it.

Wally likes to chase Clifford’s tail. Clifford also likes to chase Clifford’s tail.

Wally has seen a bug on the wall. Wally is calculating the force of her vertical velocity at takeoff while accounting for the downward acceleration due to gravity, -9.81 meters per second squared.

Clifford has just put his tongue in the wall socket.

Still, both kittens are remarkably well adjusted, for Gen Betas who are constantly being misgendered. In fact, Wally and Clifford are happy. Holy shit, they are happy. I’m the one who has toggled between delight and regret. The thing is, they are exuberating all over the place. They are paragons of pillage. They are dervishes of destruction. They are the fuzzy living embodiment of joie de vivre, and there are times we have entirely too much joie around here.

The other night I sat in my favorite chair and pondered the eruptions of noise happening elsewhere in the house. Is that the metronome whacketing off the piano? Would that be the Fabergé egg? When did they learn to drive a semi? As they galloped guiltlessly into my presence, evading their imminent demise only by virtue of being insanely cute, my questions became ever more philosophical.

What in God’s name have I gotten myself into?

Something had to be done.

To be continued.

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