Monday afternoon I pop into the pet store nearest my work to look for the vet-recommended diabetes-friendly gooshyfood.
"O hai! We're a pair of Russian Blue brother kittens who've been abandoned and are up for adoption! Know any suckers who've fallen for that sob story before?"
I acknowledged that the universe is about as subtle as a brick, and set about getting the adoption rolling. Due to various scheduling weirdnesses they didn't come home with me until Thursday night, at which point they promptly fled under the guest bed and refused to budge. The foster-mother at the humane society had mentioned that they were very skittish about new places but would warm up soon, so I had set up a kitten isolation chamber in the guest room for them.
Friday: Under the bed.
Saturday: Under the bed. We began wondering if they were some form of kitten-mole hybrid.
Finally, on Sunday, they decided I was okay, as long as I was sitting down. Standing people are still Scary Monsters Coming To Eat Us, but when sitting I am Lady Who Brings Food and Pettins. And when they warmed up, they warmed up darn quick. They're named Tanin and Palin, after Raistlin's nephews in the book series. Tanin is pronounced like the stuff in wine that gives you hangovers. Palin is pronounced like "Palindrome", not "psycho".
My foot included for size reference. I have big feet, but not THAT big.
Bundles of nerves.