If you ever have a chance to raise an orphaned kitten from this age (I’m not assuming this kitten is orphaned—I hope not), don’t pass it up. Feel free to ask me why—and to ask me how.
One of ours was obsessed with playing tug-of-war with a stubby old broom. Another, fine-skinned as he was, wanted to be brushed with a wire brush forever. They fixate. And they worry. They are pixilated. Anxious. Goofy. Emotional.
I was away in Chicago, escorting my 90+ parents there for the summer, for a week. The professional pet sitter who visited my cats twice a day (at considerable expense) was dedicated and diligent, including reporting conscientiously that they were miserable: hiding under beds, refusing to come out or to play. It turned out to be nothing worse than a cross between boredom, loneliness, and the Florida June heat, which my air conditioning can only partially alleviate in this leaky little cabin (you can see the sand through the cracks between the floorboards). When the thermostat is set for 75 and the temperature outside is 95, it’s 85 in here no matter what you do.
This is the welcome I came home to.