For close to two months, I was experiencing some measure of happiness. I was watching baseball in the basement, beers an arm’s length, screaming at the television. I was in my element, actually enjoying life.
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No, it is a not a strip club.
Until two days ago, The Kitten Cave was a Man Cave, a small space in this vast and boundless universe that I claimed as my own to watch games, indulge in a few frosty beverages and compose my missives, largely alone, at my writing desk.
Someday, I would tell myself, staring misty-eyed into some amorphous future, I too will have a Man Cave.
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For years, I yearned for a Man Cave, living in a house with an unfinished basement with ceilings only high enough for gatherings of The Lullaby League and The Lollipop Guild. I would visit friends’ houses, men around my age, who had these glorious basements with flat-screen televisions and comfortable couches, the walls peppered with sports regalia. The Man Caves always had a mini-fridge stocked with cold ones and a guitar in the corner that no one ever played.
Someday, I would tell myself, staring misty-eyed into some amorphous future, I too will have a Man Cave.
Do you have any idea how difficult it is to summon vitriol and the necessary edge to write well while surrounded by six adorable kittens?
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In February, after 13 years at our old place, my wife and I moved into a larger house with a finished basement, and a lifelong dream seemed to be coming to fruition. I lay claim to my new subterranean dwellings and went about the task of setting up shop. My uncle was redecorating his apartment at the time, and I took a comfortable old futon and a coffee table from him. My parents donated a mini-fridge. The flat screen was mounted to wall, and my writing desk was set up in the corner. As a bonus gift, the old owners left an old-fashioned popcorn machine in working order.
I had a Man Cave.
For close to two months, I was experiencing some measure of happiness. I was watching baseball in the basement, beers an arm’s length, screaming at the television. I was in my element, actually enjoying life.
Then on Monday night, under the cloak of night, our cat crawled into the closet of my Man Cave and birthed six tiny kittens.
I was also unaware that mother cats will stay with their kittens for six to eight weeks, not veering far from the spot where they gave birth. In other words, in my Man Cave, these tiny mounds of mewing fur will learn to walk and eat and shit over the next couple of months while I try to watch baseball and write.
Do you have any idea how difficult it is to summon vitriol and the necessary edge to write well while surrounded by six adorable kittens?
I’m already going soft, like a ball of downy fluff on four legs.
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The other night, for example, Koji Uehara came in during the eighth inning against KC and absolutely stunk up the joint, giving up a two-run bomb to this generation’s Babe Ruth, Paulo Orlando, and I didn’t even mutter a curse. As the kittens climbed over each other in the closet, I stood quietly, turned off the television and went to bed.
Then they dropped the first game of a double-header today. I shrugged and went out for an iced coffee. The kittens were sleeping.
Prior to the kitten invasion, I was prepared to write a column about how the Red Sox last 7-1 home stand was likely a ruse of sorts, beating up on some bad teams, and the Sox were destined for a midsummer collapse, but now I’m thinking that Mookie might make a nice name for a kitten.
I’m already going soft, like a ball of downy fluff on four legs. Worst yet, and always superstitious, if the Red Sox suddenly take a turn south, I have six reasons to explain it, six tiny curses.
Originally Published On DirtyWaterMedia.com
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Photo: Nathan Graziano