“Kitten creep” is like “mission creep” but with kittens.

Mission creep is what happened with Vietnam. Kennedy sent in the CIA and military advisers. Johnson sent in the Army, Navy, Air Force and Marines. Nixon bombed Cambodia.

Kitten creep is also an example of “creeping determinism,” a psychological term which writer Malcolm Gladwell explains is the ex post facto belief that a surprising outcome was, in retrospect, inevitable.

“Hindsight is 20-20,” the saying goes, but was the outcome really inevitable? There were dots to connect. Why didn’t we?

“I knew it all along,” is what my mother, Ol’ Food, would have said in this case.

Here’s how kitten creep is happening right now at our house.

We lost our beloved cat Henry. My wife Honey was heartbroken. Henry was the only one of our three house cats who truly loved her.

Honey called the county pound and volunteered to foster kittens as a test of our readiness to perhaps, maybe, someday adopt a kitten.

“A” kitten. One kitten.

The pound gave her a pregnant cat which promptly birthed three kittens. Grandsons Lamppost Head and The 747 were present and The 747 helped my wife with the delivery, rubbing the kittens, all males, to help them get breathing. We named the black and white ones Alexander and Russell, and the tawny lion-furred one Leo. The foster cat family took over our bathroom.

Momma Cat is a sweet and pretty calico, a walking milk wagon and devoted mother to her kittens, who, however, when allowed out of the bathroom, turned into a screaming she-devil hellcat who attacked and terrorized our two house cats, Snit and Felix. Snit and Felix live mostly outdoors now.

Honey had a brief attack of buyer’s remorse, saying this was a bad idea and while we might eventually adopt a cat we aren’t keeping any of these kittens and certainly not Momma Cat.

Then the pound called and talked Honey into fostering two more kittens, very young ones from a horse barn whose mother died. The boys named them Mary and Charlie. Sickly Mary screamed all the time and then died. Honey found Charlie in the morning trying to cuddle his dead sister. Now all alone in the world, Charlie screams a lot but is doing okay. Honey feeds him kitten formula with a syringe. When Momma/hellcat saw and heard screaming Charlie she was deeply conflicted, torn between wanting to mother him or kill him. We keep Charlie’s box in a closed bedroom.

Meanwhile the original three foster kittens have become fat, playful and hypnotically cute. Gaze at them and they steal your soul. The 747 and Lamppost Head, who come to our house every day after school, play endlessly with the kittens, zombies under their spell.

Honey announces Alexander has passed her crucial belly-rub test. He fell asleep in her arms, on his back while she rubbed his belly. It shows trust. She wants to keep him.

He needs a playmate, I say. We must keep Russell, too.

Honey says someone will adopt Leo because he’s pretty, though fat and lazier than his brothers. Momma/hellcat obviously can’t stay. Felix is so frightened of her he has been gone for three days. And Charlie will go back to the pound, too. He’s a sad case, but we have to draw the line somewhere.

Then Lamppost Head decided Leo is his favorite. Guess we’ll have to keep him, too.

That’s where things stand at the moment.

Did we fail to connect the dots because we knew all along that they would reveal a picture of three kittens? Call it mission creep, creeping determinism, willfully blind hindsight.

I call it kitten creep.

(Fred Miller’s two books of stories are only $10, available locally at Calcutta Giant Eagle, Pottery City Antique Mall, Museum of Ceramics, Frank’s Pastries, Davis Bros. pharmacies, and the Old Ft. Steuben gift shop.)