Yep, that's me - little Miss Pushover.

Irene Adler had her kittens out on the front porch. A very sensible place, in my opinion. (My last tabby cat had both litters of kittens in unreachable, inconvenient places. I got poison ivy real bad after she had them in the woods underneath a fallen tree.)

But, as if she felt my satisfaction over being able to easily access the kittens, (who will get wild and unsociable if not petted and held often,) Irene moved them. Moved them off the protected, safe, dry porch into the flowerbed beside the porch. But it isn't just any flower bed. It's more like a bush/shrub bed, filled with large, prickly, grown-closely-together bushes. Very spidery and sluggy and hard to get to without scraping out an eye.

And I don't really care. If she wants her kittens to grow up total social heathens, that's her problem.

But...

I'm a softie. Always have been, always will. I don't particularly like animals, (especially dogs,) but I hate to see them suffer. Really hate it.

So, every time it rains, I start thinking about those poor wee kits, huddled up together, getting wet under prickly bushes. I wouldn't think about it if 1. they had a really good mother who would lovingly stay with them and protect them from the wet, or 2. if they had an intelligent mother who would move them back to the porch if they were getting soaked. But they have neither; Irene comes and sits on the porch without her kittens, leaving them in the rain. Can you imagine?

Therefore, guess who feels the need to go squishing through the rain, partying with the slugs and other slippery, gross insects who I'm sure are dropping down on me the entire time I'm over in that part of the "flower bed" rescuing half drowned kittens?

Me. (Or I, if you wish to be grammatically correct. Which I do, but "I" just doesn't have the same oomph that "me" does in such a situation.)

And it's rained often since she moved them. It didn't rain so much and so hard when she had them warmly curled up on the porch. Oh, no. She doesn't leave them on the porch after I move them, either. Next morning, first thing, if the rain has stopped, they're back under the prickly, spidery bushes. To stay until it rains again.

Tonight, as I was sitting here at the computer, looking up recipes for cream scones, I heard it begin to pour.

"Whoa!" thought I, "it's raining cats and dogs out th... ohmywordthoseblastedkittensaregettingdrenched!"

Into the closet I dashed, grabbed a raincoat, (I will go out in the rain for them, but I will not get soaked for them,) a flashlight, and ran out to scoop them up, tripping over Irene all the while and chewing her out under my breath. Okay, not under my breath. Out loud. I've gotten good at scooping all five up at once so I don't have to go back a second time. Of course, they squealed and howled like I was sticking pins in their eyes, but I told them to hush up and be glad I cared about them, since their errant mother obviously didn't.

But the dear little things were mewing pitifully, and they were soaked, and I'm glad I went.

I guess.