"It looks like a TNR," said the woman into the phone. "I have five kits, three tuxes, two ginger tabbies. Can you call ShelleyBell and tell her we need a trap and an appointment at PFP? Thanks."
The woman put her phone into the pocket of her fleece jacket, and pulled on surgical gloves.
"You're the homeowner, right?" she said to Boris, the slight twang in her speech suggesting she wasn't a New Jersey native.
He nodded.
"Well, as you can see, we have a situation here," she told him. "A real situation.
When Boris heard Joe suggest that he call the Kitten Tamer to handle the brood of kittens next to the carriage house, his first thought was that Americans were too gullible to be trusted with their own destiny. Kitten Tamer? A specialist for kittens? People pay for this?
But then he considered that maybe this is what people did in Orange Heights when they had kittens on the property. He didn't know any better. His instinct was to ignore them, but maybe they damage property, he thought. Could kittens infest the carriage house? Would that be a bad thing?
Finally, curiosity won.
"What's a Kitten Tamer?" he asked Joe. "Is this an online thing?"
"She's a lady," said Dylan gravely. "She'll take the cats away and give them baths."
Again, Boris was struck by a wave of frugal cynicism, thinking of the 5 bathrooms in his house.
Joe rushed in to clarify. "She comes, traps the cats, and tames the kittens. Then she can find them homes. The mother cats are neutered and then released, so you don't have this again next year. Or next month," he said. "You know how they are."
Boris nodded knowledgeably. "Do we need to get rid of cats?" he asked, trying to sound casual and philosophical. "Will they, ugh, burrow into the ground and weaken the foundation of the house?"
Even as he asked, Boris realized the question was absurd, and both Joe and Dylan laughed.
"These kittens?" asked Dylan, pointing at tiny squirming balls of fur.
"No," said Joe patiently. "But trapping them and finding them homes is the right thing to do. And it doesn't cost anything. She does it as a volunteer."
So just a while later, long enough for Boris to put on a t-shirt and warn Naomi, the Kitten Tamer arrived in a Subaru station wagon filled with boxes.
"By the way," she said, striding into the back yard, "I'm Jillian."
Boris introduced himself and wanted to introduce the neighbors now gathered to watch the action. He forgot -- if he had ever known -- their names so he looked helplessly at Joe. But Joe was staring at Jillian as if he had never seen anyone as riveting as the tall woman now wearing purple surgical gloves.
Moonstruck, thought Boris, in broad Saturday sunshine. Lovestruck.
He turned to Dylan, who took the situation in hand. While Joe stared at Jillian and Boris watched Joe, Dylan recited the neighbors' names.
Jillian, the Kitten Tamer, nodded her thanks. "Okay, buddy," she said to Dylan. "Let's catch these kittens."
