Are you my mother?

Saturday mornings are my favorite. Monday through Friday mornings involve getting ready for work. Sunday morning involves getting ready for church. But Saturday morning means getting to putter around the house with the windows open, listening to heifers wolf down grass and waving at the occasional neighbor who drives past. 

This morning, I parked myself on the deck with Wally and Truck Kitty to see how the two would get along. 

{Truck Kitty is aptly named since, well, a relative of ours saw him run out from under a truck, put him in a shoebox and brought him to our house.}

Skippy and Little Kitty, the two calico cats, apparently found us way overrated, and they flew the coop a few weeks ago (independently of each other, I might add. I mean, are we really so awful? What more does a farm cat want? Food? Water? Dogs to chase? Grasshoppers to eat? We have it all!) so Wally didn't seem to mind a little extra company. 

Truck Kitty crawled all over him, under his paws, through his slobbering jaws, on top of his head . . . 

 and even optimistically hoped that maybe, just maybe, Wally was his mom. 

Sorry, TK.

Wally's a patient hound, and while I might be imposing my love of Saturday mornings on him, I kind of think he likes them -- and Truck Kitty -- too.