05-21-2018, 04:11 PM
[align=center][div style="background=transparent; borderwidth=0px; bordercolor=; width: auto; font-size: 9.2pt; font-family:helvetica; line-height: 125%; text-align:justify; width: 500px"]/ note: text like <this> is in russian, since i can't speak it fluently + with the exception of some words, google translate can be kind of unreliable, lmao
+ only the last paragraph really matters; don't feel like you have to match this god knows i probably won't
His parents have owned cats for as long as he can remember. Their current "fur baby" is a battered old moggy, twelve years old and covered in scars, a hulking mass of ginger fur with eyes like dead grass, a creature that, despite his ferocious appearance, is quite the sweetheart now he's safely off the streets. Most of the cats in his hometown were adopted from rescue centres, or taken straight from outdoors; he can't remember the last time he saw somebody with a cat that hadn't been a stray, and despite the sheer number of now-homed felines, the wild population remains fairly substantial. Were it up to him, he'd take them all in, but most are so elusive that spotting them in daylight is difficult enough, and the family pet probably wouldn't appreciate seven more of his kind suddenly arriving in his territory. Despite being warm to people, his opinion on other cats remains firmly bitter, and he hisses at anything bigger than a kitten. For the Mikhailovs, it's one cat at a time.
Kosta misses that stupid animal almost as much as he misses his parents. The moggy's warm weight had been a constant in his life since he was twelve, settling on his chest at the most inconvenient times, and he feels strangely homesick whenever he thinks about it. It's enough to make him want to write a letter home - and he will, in due time, to let them know that he's here and safe - but he quells the urge in favour of exploring, leaving Anzhelika sprawled out asleep on his bed (funny how she claims the more comfortable bunk, but uses his anyway), completely unaware of his absence.
Though the weather is warming, it still isn't hot enough to be safe for tiny kittens to be outside. It's why, when he first hears a strained, whining squeak, he thinks it's just the wind - but when something cries out again, louder but no less pathetic, he turns and walks through the slush to the source, which appears to be a scraggly shrub attempting to grow through the cold. As he grows closer, the squealing becomes distinct, distressed meowing, and when he pushes his hand into the shrub, moving it aside, he finds a dirty cloth sack, damp with chill and morning dew, and within it, when he lifts the neck up so he can peer inside-
"Дерьмо," Kosta mutters. Not one kitten, not two, not even three- his eyes flick between the small, shivering bodies, and he finds he counts eight of them. Eight. "<What are you doing here, kotyata?>" He rubs one finger against the cheek of the one closest to him, and it makes a pitiful sound in response. "<Come here, all of you.>" One by one, he grabs them by the scruff and lifts them out of the sack; two go in the right pocket of his coat, two in the left, and he manoeuvres the last four into his arms. It's somewhat awkward, but they stay quiet and placid enough, so he hurries them back to the lodge, hoping that the people there are cat-friendly. He's not sure caring for eight kittens is going to be an easy task alone.
+ only the last paragraph really matters; don't feel like you have to match this god knows i probably won't
His parents have owned cats for as long as he can remember. Their current "fur baby" is a battered old moggy, twelve years old and covered in scars, a hulking mass of ginger fur with eyes like dead grass, a creature that, despite his ferocious appearance, is quite the sweetheart now he's safely off the streets. Most of the cats in his hometown were adopted from rescue centres, or taken straight from outdoors; he can't remember the last time he saw somebody with a cat that hadn't been a stray, and despite the sheer number of now-homed felines, the wild population remains fairly substantial. Were it up to him, he'd take them all in, but most are so elusive that spotting them in daylight is difficult enough, and the family pet probably wouldn't appreciate seven more of his kind suddenly arriving in his territory. Despite being warm to people, his opinion on other cats remains firmly bitter, and he hisses at anything bigger than a kitten. For the Mikhailovs, it's one cat at a time.
Kosta misses that stupid animal almost as much as he misses his parents. The moggy's warm weight had been a constant in his life since he was twelve, settling on his chest at the most inconvenient times, and he feels strangely homesick whenever he thinks about it. It's enough to make him want to write a letter home - and he will, in due time, to let them know that he's here and safe - but he quells the urge in favour of exploring, leaving Anzhelika sprawled out asleep on his bed (funny how she claims the more comfortable bunk, but uses his anyway), completely unaware of his absence.
Though the weather is warming, it still isn't hot enough to be safe for tiny kittens to be outside. It's why, when he first hears a strained, whining squeak, he thinks it's just the wind - but when something cries out again, louder but no less pathetic, he turns and walks through the slush to the source, which appears to be a scraggly shrub attempting to grow through the cold. As he grows closer, the squealing becomes distinct, distressed meowing, and when he pushes his hand into the shrub, moving it aside, he finds a dirty cloth sack, damp with chill and morning dew, and within it, when he lifts the neck up so he can peer inside-
"Дерьмо," Kosta mutters. Not one kitten, not two, not even three- his eyes flick between the small, shivering bodies, and he finds he counts eight of them. Eight. "<What are you doing here, kotyata?>" He rubs one finger against the cheek of the one closest to him, and it makes a pitiful sound in response. "<Come here, all of you.>" One by one, he grabs them by the scruff and lifts them out of the sack; two go in the right pocket of his coat, two in the left, and he manoeuvres the last four into his arms. It's somewhat awkward, but they stay quiet and placid enough, so he hurries them back to the lodge, hoping that the people there are cat-friendly. He's not sure caring for eight kittens is going to be an easy task alone.