Growing up, I had hamsters and fish. The hamsters (they were called “teddy bear” hamsters) kept getting out of their cages, and consistently hid either under the couch in the living room or under my parents’ bed all the way upstairs. The fish were as much my mom’s responsibility as ours, though that changed not long after the time she was cleaning the tank out and our algae-eater flipped out of the water and smacked her on the lips.
None of this prepared me for having a kitten.
We adopted her from a local animal shelter. They were really great about socializing their kittens there. Each kennel had a pair of kittens or one older cat, and there were two enclosed areas off to the side, each with a bench for human visitors, a couple kitty towers, and a large litter box. My partner went there first while I was at work, and texted her approval and about this little two month old calico tortie baby the shelter had dubbed “Peaches” who had rolled over for her and wanted to snuggle immediately. I clocked out a little early the next day so I could be there before it closed — and we took her home that same day.