Dropped off a kitten and brought home a eunuch. Bless his heart, he has no idea that anything even happened to him.

(an ode to http://icanhascheezburger.com/ for the uninitiated.)

My kitten fetches.

Beat that, ya dirty whores.

Someone please tell the kitten. He steps on my face and licks my chin at 5am and oh P.S. he has a drooling issue.

kgreatthanksbye.

I’m not entirely passionate about the choices, but it’s been three weeks and I suppose he might appreciate an identity.

Please vote for one of the following:
1) Captain (as in my BFF)
2) Grayson (a town in GA, as well as a concatenation of his color and my favorite artist)

Still baffled as to why I’m so uninspired about naming him.

I’m thinking of naming him “Stop” so when I talk about him, it sounds like a telegram.

I’ve been longing for a “friend” since I lost my dog as part of a custody “issue” what seems like a lifetime ago. For the better part of the last two years, The Mc has tolerated my “dog voice”, my endless emails with links and pictures of furry babies, and my longing, sad glances at pooches when we go on walks. A few months ago he’d had enough and encouraged me to start the search in earnest. So I did.

The Atlanta Humane Society is dangerously close to my office and I spent at least a dozen lunch hour walking around and wishing I could bring every one of those babies home with me but reality would set in when we’d leave town for a long weekend (or a short one, or a day trip) and I’d be reminded once again what kind of commitment I need to be ready to make.

Enter the Devon Rex.

The Mc’s cousin and his wife have two, and The Mc sang their praises. How full of personality and human dependent/loving they are and yet - they’re cats. How as a stranger in their home, he’d awake to find them nuzzled up to him. How they fetched, and how his cousins wife had been in the exact situation when she researched herself silly.

For those of you who followed the danderrrific adventures when I started my relationship with The Mc, you know how I feel about cats. They’re aloof and they shed and crap in the house and they hate me.

Still, his arguments and his passion were contagious. I researched the breed, battled my inner good angel screaming at me to adopt a stray, and agreed that we should go visit the family with the kitties and let me see it all for myself and we did and I did and I too, fell in love. Weeks later we were bringing “Little Dude” home after a love at first sight moment and I’m confident now that it truly was the right decision for me.

He falls asleep in my lap when I’m reading, he loves to be carried around, he “talks” to me and comes running when he hears my voice, has an illegal amount of energy, brings me his feather toy when he wants to play and makes it incredibly hard to blog.

He’s my baby, I’m still not a cat person, and he’s still without a name. What the fug is wrong with me?

They noticed each other from across the room and locked in. I watched it happen, I saw the spark…I wished I’d had my camera ready to capture it. It’s just as well I didn’t, I would have violated the intimacy I was basking in, even if I wasn’t invited.

The murmuring of voices in their own hushed conversations didn’t distract the two of them once they’d engaged, and I continued to try not to look as moved gingerly closer to one another locked in hard and yet aloof. Four feet, three feet, two feet….

HISSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS

Amber actually snorted when taking her next breath before she unleashed another of her hate spewing hisses. She revved up and went again, and again. She introduced a growl and another guttural noise I didn’t know cats were capable of - impressing me and making me like her more than I ever had. I should have pissed her off sooner.

There were several additional introduction attempts over the weekend, the final of which resulted in a bit of bootie sniffing/yin-yang around The Mc’s ankles late yesterday afternoon. Not a Chuck Woolery moment, but not any worse than if I bumped into - say - Rory Sabbatini in a bar. That would be ugly.

So for now, we sit back and we draw parallels. We build imaginary lines between “the kids” and folks in the office we don’t like but learn to tolerate, to relatives and friends we wish we could break up with and to finding the good in everything. The way I figure it, Amber just got a live-in fitness partner and someone to blame for little land mines of vomit on the kitchen floor.