About a month and a half ago our neighbors got a kitten. A teeny, tiny, probably should still be with his mother, kitten. We would see it from time to time out in the yard with Bilguun, age 10, or his sister Delgermaa, age four, but it didn’t seem to stray too far.  Then last week, a year and a day to when we lost Nigel, he turned up in our yard. Brian invited the tiny mite in, gave him some water and dog food, and introduced the concept of the comfy bed. Santiago was in seventh heaven.

Over the past week and a half the cat, aka foster kitten, has visited us almost everyday for a snack, a hack at the milk bowl, and most importantly a chance to relax without a child taking him on a bike ride, showing him how fun the monkey bars at school are, or building him a brick shed to live in.  Bilguun comes over as well now to reclaim or drop off his kitten, to watch Indian Jones with us, or to taste the weird Americans’ food.

These days foster kitten spends most of his time at our place including the past few nights. We don’t want our neighbors to think that we have stolen their cat so we put it back outside every chance we get or when we go away. The problem with that is the kitten is small, the wholes around the base of our ger walls are large, and he refuses to take no for an answer.  And honestly who could say no to this little guy?