Married with . . . Cats

Forget the Christmas list. Forget ever getting the entire house clean at one time. And forget ever writing undisturbed again.

About two weeks ago, unbeknownst to me, my loving DH decided in his infinite wisdom to give me very special gift this year. We were blessedly down to only one pet (German Shepherd) after our Norweigen Forest cat, Tinker, died 1-1/2 years ago. Since we also have a pre-schooler, cleaning up the mess of a small family was fine with me.

Not so with my DH. It just so happens, he works with a gal who also runs a cat rescue. And she had 2 dozen animals to find homes for. For all his masculine bravado about not missing Tinker, my DH covered his soft spot for our dearly departed pet well. Fast forward to about one week ago. A lunchtime phone call interrupted my concentration and flow of new words to the page when I heard, "I'll email you a picture of Bob."

I opened my email page to see "Bob." The cat. A very big fluffy black and white cat who was obviously part Ragdoll/Norweigen. A pretty cat. A cat with a big scowl. He apparently doesn't like having his picture taken.

"Sure, we can go see Bob," I answered my excited DH, who'd previously expounded on the benefit of getting an outdoor cat to help curb the population explosion of squirrels nesting and feasting in all our pecan trees. I saw this as a definite asset, especially since I wouldn't have to do cat-pan duty.

The next day we visited THE CAT LADY.

Even though I'd popped an allergy medication (I'm mildly allergic), my senses were assaulted when we walked into The Cat Lady's home. I've never seen so many cats in one place except in a shelter. They were all running free. They were curious and talkative (meowing like crazy). All were happy and some quite content to remain at least an arm's distance from us, especially my preschooler. I understood why my DH was so eager to adopt. He'd related horrid accounts of news reports he'd read about old people dying and not being found for a week and the cats snacking on them because the animals had no other food. EEWWW!

We had no choice. It was our humane duty to adopt.

So, we sat, and the cats came to us. They talked, rubbed on our ankles, and looked into our eyes as if to say, "pick me!"

Bob ignored us, of course. He wanted *nothing* to do with us. He wouldn't even let The Cat Lady pick him up and bring him to us.

My DH was disappointed. My son laughed and played chase up and down a hall with one cat. I calmly sat watching the whole process and dutifully petted two little domestic short-haired cats (aka, mutts) who'd curled up comfortably in my lap and didn't want to leave.

An hour later, my sinuses clogged, my nose running and my eyes swelling, we decided it was time to leave. Then my DH made the astute observation, "those little cats really like you."

Duh. They'd been in my lap almost since the moment I'd sat down.

We adopted them. Both were already neutered, thankfully, and had all their shots and leukemia tests. They get along with the dog. Merlin is black with an interesting counter-ermine pattern (tiny white hairs in a few places all over his black hair). The little cream colored cat (like light brown sugar) started life as Blondie, then became Sugar. Now he's answering to Pywacket.

So, this year instead of a new CD or Witches Almanac or a book about writing, I got cats for Christmas/Yule.

I'm still popping allergy meds and hoping to quickly rebuild my tolerance. Merlin and Pywacket like to sit in my lap purring like endless chainsaws as I write (yes, they're both there now ;-)) I'll probably still get the CD and books I asked for. I'll even accept the additional cleaning up in the house plus daily cat-pan duty because I love the cats.

But not when they jump onto the kitchen counter.