In Expectation of Kittens
Our backyard is feral cat central. A nearby neighbor feeds them, but they hang out here. At times I've seen as many as five cats at one time lounging around like we're the Playboy Mansion. This has been going on for as long as I've lived here. I've thought about trapping them, and maybe I will, if only to have them fixed.

Because every year our backyard has kittens.

Every summer, usually around July, we'll start to notice kittens in the yard. Typically it's only one litter, but that's enough. Anywhere from two to five little furry bodies starts laying in our sunshine, curling up by our fence, and pooping on the lawn. For a while there was one kitty we called Mama Cat because she seemed to be the one that did all the breeding. We've seen others, though, but it never fails that we have one fertile kitty every summer who decided our nice, quiet, dog-free yard is the perfect place for her offspring to play.

And every year, about this time, we begin to hear, late at night, the mating call of the annoying feral cat. Part Rebel Yell (from the Civil War, not from Billy Idol) part bad German opera, and part "I think my car needs a tune-up) this call is the serenade to my insomnia. I'll be curled up, watching a movie, and from the yard I'll hear that unmistakable "yowwrrr" that tells me to start boiling the water and getting the clean towels ready. I've heard it twice in the past week and I just know someone is getting it on. I can hear the Barry White in the background. I've tried knocking on the window, turning on the light, and otherwise doing my bit to ruin the mood, but I know it won't help. They'll just go down to the basement while dad and I are at the Lion's Club Dance and do the nasty on the spare sofa. Damned kids.

I really need to talk to someone at the Humane Society about trapping the strays and getting them fixed. In the meantime, I'll start preaching abstinence because, you know, that really works.