Two weeks ago today we said hello to a nervous ball of growls and hisses, who eventually resolved into our new cat Pogo:
Pogo a 12-year-old kitty who came to us from our friend
Bree, and when he's not freaking out he's a very soft cat who likes to snuggle. (In case you're curious, he's named not for the cartoon, but for
another cat named Pogo, who was in turn named for his bouncy walk as a kitten.) There's still a bit of a standoff between him and alpha cat Serabi, who likes to keep an eye on his every move:
...but overall, we think they're getting used to one another. Only one real cat-fight so far. Pogo and Ralph have already gotten on with the mutual ignoring that we expect will characterize the next several years.
Last weekend, with some trepidation at leaving the delicate feline situation, Alan and I went to visit my dad and his wife in Montana. This is nowhere close to as complex as family can get, but terminology got dicey once or twice. Alan would start to say "your parents" and then stumble, and things like that. We found it worked best if we, the younger generation, referred to the older pair as "the parents" and they referred to us as "the kids". I found this a fairly graceful way of acknowledging our generational places in the loose family structure, without putting undue stress on the presence or absence of blood ties.
The parents:
The other kid:
And, of course, me:
