Carla had a playdate this past snow day with a friend. “Just be warned,” Friend’s mom texted me, “We haven’t shoveled the driveway!” Neither had I, and the snow had fallen fast and furious the night before, so I could definitely relate. 

I plugged Friend’s address into my navigator and drove there, very, very slowly. I’d been to Friend’s house once before, and as we got close, I noticed Friend’s dad outside shoveling the driveway, all bundled up against the cold. I felt a little panicky – like maybe he was doing it on my behalf? But I’d texted Friend’s Mom that it was no big deal, I could pause on the street and send Carla to fetch Friend from the house. 

But no. He had completely shoveled the driveway. As I pulled up, he turned away from the street, getting out of the way so I could drive up the driveway to the house. 

He turned and looked at me as I pulled up. His hat was pulled down so low, and his gaiter was pulled up so high, all you could see was a narrow band of flesh around his eyes. I couldn’t tell if he was smiling, and instantly fretted that he was annoyed he’d had to interrupt his work day to  clear the driveway for me. 

I rolled down my window. The snow and cold swirled in, fogging my glasses. “Hi! How are you?”

“Good. How are you?”

“Great! You did a great job on the driveway!” Why did I say that? He didn’t need my praise. I just felt awkward that I was the cause of the shoveling. Although, probably not everything is about me, and maybe he needed some exercise/a break from work/to shovel the driveway anyway.

He wasn’t making any moves toward the house, so I figured his wife hadn’t told him we were coming to pick up his daughter. Maybe he didn’t recognize me; I’d put on a mask because we were going to have Friend in the car with us. I pulled down my mask and smiled at him.

Still nothing. Several long seconds of nothing.

“Well, we’re just here to pick up Friend!” 

That’s when he told me, in a very amused voice, that Friend lives next door. 

“Haha!” I giggled in semi-hysteria, the blowing snow melting instantly on my shame-fired cheeks. “You are so bundled up, I couldn’t tell you weren’t Friend’s dad!”

I backed down the driveway. Carla was APPALLED. “That wasn’t Friend’s HOUSE, Mommy!” she said in a low, horrorstruck voice. 

“Haha!” I said. “I know! Whoops! No harm done!”

Except that as I backed into the street, there was Friend’s dad, at the bottom of the very next driveway, holding a shovel and trying valiantly not to laugh at me. 

So I think you and I both need a good dose of kitten, today. Don’t you agree?

Carla, as you know, likes to make friends with the neighbors for the sole purpose of getting access to their pets. 

Apparently – and if I’ve told you this story before, I apologize; I did search through my blog but couldn’t find it, which, alas, doesn’t mean it isn’t there – Carla had spotted one neighbor’s kitten through the neighbor’s glass door several months ago, and had asked the neighbor about it. I swear I’ve told you this: I spent an excruciating half hour in this neighbor’s foyer once, because she’d invited Carla to come play with the kitten and I’d never met her before and that sounded pretty murdery. 

She is NOT a murderer, she is a lovely woman. And she had a short work trip that would take her out of town overnight. So she asked Carla to cat sit the kitten. 

I mean. Carla almost passed out from joy. This is her goal, you know. To be a pet sitter. 

When it came time to pet sit, Carla lost a little bit of her nerve. She had all her instructions and a key and a code to the garage. But she was a little anxious about doing it alone, so she asked me to come with her. I had been planning to walk her to the neighbor’s house anyway – our street is positively choked with snow, and all the plows have made the sidewalks inaccessible and backing out of driveways very treacherous. So I didn’t want her to walk down the street by herself. 

But then I went in – and stood respectfully in the entryway – while Carla fed and watered the kitten and played with him.

He is SO CUTE. So. Cute. And he was a little bit lonely, so he came right over to me and let me give him lots of scritches. 

He purred. A LOT. And he was extremely playful, which was cause for endless delight on Carla’s part (and mine, too). 

I wish I had more photos for you. But kittens are (un)surprisingly difficult to photograph, much in the way that eight-and-a-half-year-old future pet sitters are difficult to capture being still.

I have still not recovered from the Mistaken House Incident, but the kitten helps soothe the inflamed psyche.