We have been raising a pair of orphaned kittens from a feral cat that had taken up residence at our farm. They had been alone for three days before we knew they existed. Tiny, weak, frightened they could barely stand and sensing, I suppose, that they were close to death, they allowed us to bring them home. Judging by their size and temperament alone, we decided the smaller, sweeter, tiger striped one quick to purr and who loved to curl up under my chin, was a female, (we named her Sweetie Pie), and the slate gray with white tummy, face, and boots, who loved to bite and hide, and had zero desire to cuddle, was a male. My son thought he looked like the donkey in Shrek so we began to call him Donkey. It is embarrassing to admit that a couple of farmers can’t determine the gender of kittens, but until the equivalent of kitty puberty, we are clueless.
Time passed. The kittens grew and one day we noticed that genitalia had dropped on BOTH cats. My darling Sweetie Pie is a boy.
We have referred to him as ‘her’ for so long the change in reference is difficult.
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