There I am, happily pounding away at the keyboard, when Chris meanders by with a bemused look on his face and states, apropos of nothing,”Don’t mow the grass.”
He then grabs his car keys and wanders out the front door.
I blink, but Chris is our fathers son, so I go back to typing a particularly lurid sword-fight, get a bit thirsty and hop into the kitchen.
As I am pouring my cuppa, I happen to look out the kitchen window — and there’s a face staring at me from under the lawn mower.
I go outside, look under the lawn mower, pause and go back inside the house. Chris has just arrived, bearing a large yellow bag.
“Chris,” says I, “Why do we have a four-pack of kittens under the lawn mower?”
“Because it’s ever-so-much more dangerous than a dumpster?”
Seems like the daft mama of the kittens previously rescued — twice — has done had her another set. And this time, since we’re obviously not dangerous (dumb, but not dangerous), she has stashed them under the lawnmower on the driveway outside the back door.
Mama cat either isn’t really a feral cat, or she’s decided that the feral life sucks:
And our driveway — with it’s dearth of dumpsters — seems to be prime kitten-raising ground:
As would the living room, if only we’d bow to the inevitable and open the damned door: