Over Labor Day weekend I visited my aunt’s farm out in north central Illinois. Helping with chores at a neighbor’s farm, she said that the neighbors didn’t take care of the barn cats that were running all over the place and that they thought that there were kittens up in the hay loft. They were tiny – when curled up, their bodies were smaller than my fist. My wife thought that the kittens were maybe a week old, their eyes not open yet. At first we weren’t going to take them because they were so young, but we’d already seen a gimpy young cat born earlier in the year who had been stepped on by a horse. Figuring that for good or ill at least they’d be warm, fed and not die at the hands of a raccoon attack, we scooped them into my hat (all three of them fit in it with a bit of elbow room) and my aunt showed us how to feed and take care of them.

What followed was a week or so of trying to get sleepy, weak kittens who could barely lift their heads to eat formula from a syringe every four hours (even during the night, inducing the sort of sleep-deprived madness that does a body good in short doses) and several trips to the pet store because I underestimated how fast their appetites would grow.

Molly's eyes are barely open but still she hates being so undignified.

Then they grew up a little bit and could move around, so we started to introduce them to Ricki, who is afraid of cats after hanging around with several standoffish felines.

Ricki meeting the kittens

We also noticed a small bunch of flea eggs that were appearing on the kittens. Cue more evening drives to the pet store for flea combs. After a few days of chasing the flea with the comb, I managed to catch it in between the tines and we washed the eggs off of the kittens. So far, we haven’t see any new fleas or eggs.

Now, of course, they’ve taken the compassion that my wife and I displayed and turned it into a powerful predatory instinct. Despite being only a bit more than a month old, they’re already capable of taking down human-sized prey.

From left: El Tigre, Voltairine, Pwned Greg, Molly

They’re mostly weaned off of the bottle, but they’re still not quite toilet trained. We’re at the point where we have to give them a rinse-off every evening and clean out their crate. On the plus side, Voltairine has mostly stopped sucking on El Tigre and Molly’s butts until they shit all over her face, so we’re making progress.

My Dear Wife has also suggested that the reason that I haven’t had more success as an author is that I haven’t had a cat. El Tigre tries to climb into my mouth if I’m not careful, so that oughta equate to a best seller list somewhere.

Sometimes I forget to take my lunch to work; or, more frequently, I am too lazy the previous evening to prepare a dish. And sometimes those leftovers don’t fit in my haute-couture Polar Jacket lunch bag. It’s vintage 2005 and that season’s collection was all about space conservation.

So I’m forced with a decision. Go hungry and have fatty rage or pay too much for too little food. I used to go with the former until I had to go to the dentist because I had chewed on the edge of my desk in a blind rage. If the ADA really cared about my teeth they would’ve educated me on the dangers that laminated particle board poses to my teeth. Which are legion.

Eating lunch out is expensive and, more importantly, isn’t usually worth the cash. For the price of a decent cocktail I can get some bland bread and warmed-over meat full of enough salt to send the Morton’s girl to the cardiologist or a gob of white rice with a molecule of curry paste on top, and that’s only if the cook got a little enthusiastic. As a result, I’ve unlocked my inner scavenger, and by inner scavenger I mean my minor field of study in college. You could say that I’m doing graduate work in the field, and my thesis project is in progress, and that sauce that I spilled on my shirt is like a signature of approval from my advisor on my progress report.

Here are several lessons that I’ve distilled.

1. Never fall for the siren call of McKingBell. There are plenty of other pieces of styrofoam with superior sauces available in a garbage can near you, and it’s hard to scavenge after you’ve shit yourself cross-eyed. A classic rookie mistake.
2. Buy breakfast food. It’s cheaper. Why pay five dollars for a sandwich with everything on it when you can get a bagel and cream cheese with everything on it for two dollars? You’ll spend a few extra seconds confirming that yes, you said you wanted hot peppers on a cream cheese bagel, but the resulting nutrients ought not to be ignored.
3. Call in imaginary favors. Remember that time that you bought your friend a few drinks? Neither does he, but then again, he was drunk.
4. Make some friends with prospective college students. Orientations and tours always have goodies and most of the audience haven’t started their coursework in scavenging yet. Take advantage of your superior knowledge and skills. Remember, knowledge is not just power, but also free carrot muffins and burnt coffee.
5. My wife once said that I’d eat an envelope if it was full of mustard. She was wrong. I’d eat an envelope if it was full of mustard AND lettuce AND pickles, at the very least. And if you work in an office, envelopes are free and you don’t even have to consider the cost of postage! Steal condiments off of someone else’s sandwich. Suckers.

This guide has not been meant to be definitive in any way, but instead to serve as a prompt or springboard for your own explorations in being a cheap bastard. And remember, if you do cave and buy a sandwich, please pay me no heed when I’m plundering it for ingredients to stuff into my envelope.