The Storeh of the Kitteh
Well, first and foremost...wow. Just holy shit, wow, whoa, and other assorted expressions of surprise, because...seriously, wow, y'all. I am completely overwhelmed by how many people stuck around, and the incredibly nice, awesome, wonderful remarks everyone left in over 550 comments. I've read all of them. It's absolutely humbling, and I cannot tell you how much I appreciate it. Thank you all, so very much, for being so supportive and understanding (and hilarious, as usual). For those of you who are in a sad place, I hope you find your happiness soon; for those who've made it through, I'm glad you're on the other side. And for everyone, I hope I can keep entertaining y'all, and thank you again for making me feel so welcomed. It's made me so glad I've come back. Kisses to each and every one of you.
But, I don't want to get all maudlin and weepy ("Oh, you guuuuys! I seriously loooove yoooou"), so putting the seriousness aside: oh my goodness, hello! So, y'all, there are a million things to tell you about, and I've been stuck trying to figure out where to begin. In the last year, Brian and I moved in together. We redid the entire house using methods involving "actual construction" and "contractors" and "the shedding of Leigh's tears." We had our first Christmas together, we went to Nassau for New Year's with Cookie and Spam, and we've gone through an entire bottle of Tabasco sauce (which, according to my mother, is the benchmark for establishing when you are Officially Stuck With Each Other As A Couple). We've had a really, really happy year together, and we've done this whole shit-ton of stuff. So, I've been trying to figure out the best way of unjumbling it (now a word) and presenting everything to y'all in some kind of cohesive narrative. But, you know, that sounds...Challenging. And boring, kind of, in the manner of a travel log, or forcing someone to look at the slides of your vacation pictures. So I am just going to...not do that, and instead, I am going to jump right in with a new Storeh. And, because I continue to be the Queen of Tangents, I figure, hell. I'll probably get around to covering everything at some point eventually. Even the thing with the bra! I definitely need to tell y'all about the thing with the bra.
(Heeee, bra thing.)
And finally, I have to give an enormous, whole-wide-world-sized thank you to Cobwebs, who has been working nonstop on fixing this website. She's deleted spam, fixed the About Me page, and basically done a lifetime's worth of magical code-related things. She's also helping me (read: doing everything that involves any degree of intelligence) on a site redesign, so y'all can even expect an updated look here, too. (Uh, eventually. If I can ever make decisions.) But, seriously, really, a massive thank you to this wonderful lady -- she got in touch with me a few months ago, and without her encouragement and help, I probably wouldn't be back at all. That is how instrumental she has been in making this whole thing work. She rules.
Aaaaand so, to switch shit up again, and thus having concluded my usual many paragraphs of opening things up and getting myself all established, please allow me to tell you the Storeh of the Kitteh. Because, as I mentioned, we seem to have a Kitteh. And she does not seem to be leaving. Settle in for the longest entry in the world.
So, it all started about...oh, maybe six weeks ago, when I was heading home from the office one night. We have a parking garage in the bottom floor of the building. And it is not a nice garage. It is a dark, smelly, terrifying Rape Garage, which is sealed by means of a dark, smelly, terrifying Rape Gate. And as I was pulling through this gate that particular evening, I saw something tiny and black darting between the posts, running out of the garage and stopping underneath one of the dark, smelly, terrifying Rape Dumpsters sitting outside.
I thought it was a rat. A dark, smelly, terrifying Rape Rat, and I let out a little squeal of EEEE RAPE RAT, because that is apparently an ingrained evolutionary thing that I cannot help, no offense, rats. But then the little black tininess moved, and I looked closer, and I realized that: ohhhhh. That is not a Rape Rat. That is a kitten. A little black and white kitten, curled up under a Rape Dumpster, and scared entirely to death.
Now, with random terrified lost dogs, I kind of have a protocol, in which I open the car door, produce a dog treat (which, yes, I do carry in my car, what of it), and ask them nicely if they would be interested in taking a ride to hopefully a place which is their actual home, and which preferably does not involve busy intersections. I have done this so many times that my parents called me last winter, twice, to remind me that there were coyotes spotted in the area, and JESUS CHRIST, LEIGH, WE KNOW YOU'RE GOING TO TRY AND PUT A DAMN COYOTE IN YOUR CAR. (Sidenote: While I have never come across a coyote, I did have a close encounter with a fox last year. Fox was FINE with getting into my car, in fact thought this to be an EXCELLENT idea, and CHEERIO, THANKS FOR THE RIDE, and was well on his way to the passenger door when it dawned on me that he was not, in fact, an overgrown chihuahua.)(Sidenote again: LISTEN IT WAS DARK.)
But, anyway. Point being, I kind of know what to do (or what I do, anyway) when it's a lost and help-needing dog, but now I was staring at this kitten and just drawing a blank. Because kittens don't so much come when called, first of all, and also, I do not understand them one bit. They are perplexing, and finally, they don't seem to respond to dog treats. So, after a few, "Heeeere, kitty kitty kitty,"-es (as seen on TV), I just kind of looked sadly at the cat, rolled up my window, and drove on home. But, I probably should have known that this would not be the end of that.
Because, see. Here's the thing. Ever since Brian and I first started dating, I have known how much he loves cats. He loves dogs, too, and he's just crazy about Bo and Gimmme, and is the best puppy babydaddy ever and etc., but Brian just...likes cats. He thinks they are soft, and hilarious, and insane, and more fun than basic cable. I have never really understood this, and so I'd vetoed the idea wholly, in conversations in which the words "litter box," "pungent," and "gag reflex" were uttered. And he was fine with it, but a small, bitsy part of me knew that if it were his call, we'd already have some evil creature with a ludicrous name like Lady Kittenboots McCatbottom running the fuck around. And I was the only thing standing in the way of Lady Kittenboots McCatbottom. And that made me feel bad, because Brian is awesome, and wonderful, and he just tries so damn hard to make everyone else happy. He's too good a man not to have whatever the hell he wants, and so I'd kind of resolved to keep an open mind about the cat situation, and maybe things would just work themselves out. Maybe they'd even work themselves out underneath a Rape Dumpster. WHO KNOWS.
But, so, such thoughts were already lurking in the back of my mind when I saw the kitten that night, but seeing as I didn't know how to get her, I figured that she'd just run off and never be seen again. But by the next week, it was clear that she hadn't just disappeared into the night. Instead, everyone at the office was reporting kitten sightings. People had seen her darting around, hiding under cars, eating from the dumpster, etc. She wouldn't come for anyone when they called her, and she'd run if you approached her, even if you only approached her in your mind, but she kept on popping up and darting about and basically making her presence known. And of course, she was adorable, and we all talked very loftily about how we would soon catch her and she would be shipped to a fancy cat preserve somewhere, possibly in Africa, so that she could roam free and eat wild Whiskas all day long. But nobody really did anything, except worry in a kind of vague way, because she wouldn't let anyone close enough, and hey, what are you gonna do.
Uuuuntil. One day, I went downstairs to get something from my car, and ran into one of the (very buff and large) building maintenance guys, who for purposes of this story, will be known as Mr. Bicep. And Mr. Bicep was just standing there, talking on his cell phone, while the Dumpster Kitteh sat squarely on top of Mr. Bicep's feet, swatting at his shoelaces. And my response was threefold, and exactly as follows:
1. OMG KITTEH
2. Well, that is officially cute.
3. Aw, FUCK.
(Note: All of these responses proved to be accurate and correct. That is some foreshadowing for you.) Mr. Bicep got off the phone, and laughed when he saw me staring at him. "KITTEH!" I said. "I made a friend," he said. "Someone is going to end up taking that kitten home," I said. "I think we all know who that will be," he said.
But, even though Kitteh loved Mr. Bicep (as do...well, all the other women in the building -- Kitteh ain't blind), when I tried to get closer, she ran off in a huff again. I would possibly even call it a flounce. She flounced off, and would have nothing to do with me whatsoever, so I thought, well, maybe we will NOT end up with a dumpster kitten after all, and the balance of the universe will remain undisturbed.
Buuut that, too, was short-lived. The next kitten situation occurred about a week later. Brian was out of town for, like, two weeks straight on business, and after work one night, Cookie and I had a cocktail (or...twoish) at the bar in our building, and started talking about Kitteh. Of course, Cookie has known Brian since, like, high school or something, so she knows how he feels about cats, and how he's wanted one forever. And then there's the fact that Cookie and Spam have two cats, whom they adore, and whom Spam named as their children in his high school reunion bulletin. So, it was not completely surprising to me when Cookie started talking about how awww, poor kitteh, who is probably going to die, in a horrible way, when meanwhile all Brian has ever wanted in the world is a kitteh and very probably that precise kitteh, and HELL IS WATCHING YOU, LEIGH (note: Cookie is Catholic), but maybe this is your chance at REDEMPTION and also to win awards made out of diamonds and ponies for BEST GIRLFRIEND EVER, PUT DOWN YOUR WINE AND GO GET THAT KITTEN RIGHT NOW.
That is what she said. I missed Brian anyway, and yes, here is this kitten who needs help and is just free for the taking. And I thought, maybe this crazy cat person is onto something. Maybe this is fate in the Rape Garage! And you don't scoff at fate, baby. Nor do you flounce.
But even with all of Cookie's admonitions, there was still no getting this particular cat, because recall: she apparently hated me, with flouncing. So even though this was all good in theory, in real-life-land, I didn't see how it was going to work out. But, I did have one tenuous, wine-inspired idea, and so: I gave my business card to the building security, and told them that if someone did manage to catch the cat, to give me a call, and I'd make sure she got to a vet. No commitment, no chasing a wild creature under cars, but if you're giving me a prepackaged kitten, well, possibly that is something I can work with.
Now, turns out, that particular whim sealed a lifetime deal. By the following Monday, word had gotten out that there was a taker for the cat, a TAKER for the CAT, HALLELUJAH. And by "word had gotten out," evidently I mean that somehow this information spread throughout a 26-story building, over a weekend, and suddenly everyone in Atlanta turned Cat Catcher, trying to round up the kitten on my behalf. I, however, was blissfully unaware of any of this. I, in point of fact, was conducting witness prep over the phone all day, and had no idea that an all-out cathunt was simultaneously underway, with the goal being to present me with a kitten in a box. And yet, I, eventually, did find this out.
So, Monday, early afternoon, I was on a law-related phone call I couldn't interrupt, when someone started knocking on my door. Which...I mean, can't do anything, on the phone here, client/law happenings underway, scram. Eventually my assistant must have intervened, because the knocking stopped; that, however, is when my call waiting started beeping. Incessantly. And again: ON THE PHONE. LAW. WTF.
When I failed to respond, the next tactic was email, and I received an official flurry of them. Which I had to read quickly, because perhaps I mentioned my overwhelming ON THE PHONENESS and thus am kind of supposed to be paying attention to this witness, you know. But a quick skim of my inbox revealed a secret-agent-like message along the lines of:
Hello. Cat is in a box. Box is under bench in the north corner of garage, in an impenetrable cage made of molten steel and locked with human teeth. Animal control has been called, as has the army and NASA. You have six minutes to disarm a bomb, fashion a rope from scotch tape, and rescue the kitten from a certain heinous death that will be squarely on your head.
P.S. The clock is starting at four minutes ago.
Now. I am maybe exaggerating mildly here, but the gist was that the cat was waiting in a box for me, somewhere in the parking garage. But I had to leave and get her that second, because the building had already called Animal Control, who would be here any minute. And, this was not exactly how I'd envisioned things going down.
I'd been thinking more along the lines of, okay, I get a phone call saying hello, cat is in a box, pick up box when you have a chance, thanks for Samaritan-ing, have a good day. I was not so much anticipating the fucking RACE AGAINST TIME with cat's DEATH ON THE LINE drama which was suddenly unfolding all around me. And there was absolutely zero I could do about any of it, because I really couldn't stop a poor witness in the middle of her tearful testimony by being all, "Uh, yeah, can you hold on while I go save a cat and then, I don't know, BRING A BOXED FERAL KITTEN back up to my OFFICE, where I am sure the feral kitten will be TOTALLY SILENT and well-behaved and JUST FINE while I finish up the many remaining hours my working day? THANKS."
And it made me feel like shit, because people had tried to catch this kitten on the basis of my promise to do something about it, and now I couldn't help. I mean, I tried sending emails saying, you know...think you could hold off on that Animal Control part?, etc., but for whatever reason, that wasn't an option for the building management. So I basically sat there all afternoon, STILL on the phone, feeling horrible and guilty for being responsible for this whole enormous mess.
So, shitty day. And Brian was still out of town, and with the addition of the remaining nonstop working/cat blood on head, etc., I was in a Mood, and so Cookie again kindly offered to take me downstairs for a cheer-up-Leigh session, with medicinal wine. She reassured me that there really wasn't anything I could have done, and who the fuck called Animal Control anyway, and who died and made them the issuer of weird cat ultimatums? And while that did make me feel better, I was still feeling pretty bad, regardless. And I continued to feel bad until we walked downstairs, opened the door to the Rape Garage, and found ourselves staring directly at: the Kitteh. Hello.
Turns out, someone had decided to intervene with the Decree of the Building Management Animal Control Calling People, and had...opened Kitteh's box. And it turns out, that person was Mr. Bicep, who had opened the lid and screamed, "RUN FOR YOUR LIFE" at the kitten. And the kitten took that advice, and got the hell out of dodge. Nicely played, Mr. Bicep.
But, we didn't know that at the time; all we knew was that OMG KITTEH ISN'T IN JAIL, and also is kind of...dude, she's actually kind of close to us, and not acting scared, and holy shit, maybe we can...get her? I don't know! What do we do? AHH, and these were the conversations that Cookie and I had, because now the entire cat situation had been elevated to an Official Crisis, and Animal Control may be right around ANY CORNER, AHH GRAB THE CAT AND GET THE EVERFUCK OUT OF HERE NOW.
Kitteh ran under Cookie's car and stared at us. Cookie got down on all fours and made some...I don't know, fucking clicking mouth sounds that cat people make, and which are apparently very effective, because out Kitteh came, just as casual as can be. And Cookie picked her up, and handed her to me, and -- in the smartest move this animal has ever made in her entire little dumpster-diving life -- she curled up in my arms, put her tiny head against my chest, and began to purr.
"Oh my God," said Cookie. "FUCK," said I.
But, we had no cat carrier. We had nothing even resembling a cat carrier, so we just...put Kitteh in the back seat of my car, and stared suspiciously at her through the window. And there she sat, all peaceful and adorable, until the moment that I, too, got into the car, and started the ignition. Which is the point at which Helpless Purring Baby Thing transformed herself into Shrieking Demon Hellcat of Rage, bansheeing her tiny body all over the car, and suddenly I was driving like a maniac down Georgia 400 with a DEEPLY unhappy free-range kitteh threatening to pounce on my head, and howling like I was in the process of SKINNING HER ALIVE.
It was at this point, as I cowered in anticipation of a pointy attack from behind, listening to the shrieks of an animal I was supposedly rescuing, that I started...sort of rethinking the situation. But, you know, it was kind of late for that, given that there was now a feral kitten in my Lexus, but Note To Self, that in the future, I KIND OF NEED TO THINK THESE THINGS THROUGH BEFORE SHOVING CREATURES INTO THE CAR. Having achieved this spontaneous clarity, I realized that the items on my "Should Have Considered" List included, but were not limited to:
1. How I was going to get her out of the car;
2. What in the FUCK the dogs would think of all of this;
3. What in the fuck my FAMILY would think of all of this;
4. What one feeds a cat, which is very certainly going to be something I do not have;
5. The now-noticeable smell of dumpster permeating from the backseat; and
6. LITTER BOX LITTER BOX LITTER BOX.
By the time the two of us got home, we were pretty much equally hysterical, but only one of us was making an unholy racket. I grabbed kitteh by whatever I could get hold of (tail? Pelvis?), and wrestled her little furious, shrieking, POINTY OW POINTY self inside the house, and upstairs to the empty guest room. And then I released her, she bolted, and I closed the door, and I also bolted, only in the opposite direction. In the direction of safety. Where there are no kitties whatsoever.
First order of business was shopping, and because this story is already fifteen miles long, I will shorten things up a bit by just sharing the email exchange between Cookie and myself that evening, as my credit cards and I spent some quality time at the grocery store:
----- Original Message -----
From: Miss Doxie
Sent: Mon Sep 28 20:31:04 2009
Subject: HELP ME
Dumpster kitteh is in the guest room and I'm out shopping for EVERYTHING. Where can I buy a litterbox? Can I fashion one out of something else? How do they even work?
Incidentally, kitteh had a CONNIPTION in the car. Then again in the guest room.
Kitteh is moodeh.
----- Original Message -----
To: Miss Doxie
Sent: Mon Sep 28 20:35:56 2009
Subject: Re: HELP ME
Aw, kitteh! You can make a litter box out of anything! Just put some litter in a box. Kitty will figure it out quickly.
You have good karma for 5 lifetimes!
----- Original Message -----
From: Miss Doxie
Sent: Mon Sep 28 20:40:31 2009
Subject: Re: HELP ME
Found box. What kind of litter?! Clumping? WTF CAT WORDS.
----- Original Message -----
To: Miss Doxie
Sent: Mon Sep 28 20:41:27 2009
Subject: Re: HELP ME
Definitely clumping!! And if you want to calm her down, get some cat nip. It's like pot for cats.
----- Original Message -----
From: Miss Doxie
Sent: Mon Sep 28 20:45:29 2009
Subject: Re: HELP ME
Buying all the catnip in zipcode
After this little exchange, communications went dark as I paid for my items; returned home; gave a certain feral cat a bath using cat shampoo (yes), vodka, and a rosary; dressed my puncture wounds; fashioned myself a tourniquet; took a Xanax; and tossed the fucking cat back in her guest room, where she immediately ran behind a chair and hissed at me. Then I went downstairs and watched Project Runway with a bottle of wine and two INCREDIBLY confused dogs, whose crackerjack senses had determined that MOM SMELLS LIKE A FOOD, and I basically just tried to ignore eeeeverythying that was going on upstairs.
This did not work, however, as subsequent communications show:
----- Original Message -----
From: Miss Doxie
Sent: Tues Sep 29 1:36:32 2009
Out buying flea killer at 1:30 in the morning.
P.S.: What happens if I eat the catnip? Or should I smoke it?
----- Original Message -----
From: Miss Doxie
Sent: Tues Sep 29 2:14:55 2009
Wants to come live at YOUR house.
And so it was, for the first day or two of Kitteh's life here. I made appointments for her shots and tests and spaying and all that business, and I refilled her food and changed her litter (EW) and went in and visited her every little while. And, she responded by hissing at me while standing amid her hundreds of dollars worth of newly-purchased cat supplies, all of which she HATED, she HATED THEM, and she hated my bourgeois bullshit attitude that assumed she'd be happier in suburbia as opposed to a dumpster. So, for the most part, it was kind of like being the parent of a teenager.
Meanwhile, Brian was still out of town, and was halfway around the world, but I was updating him on the Kitteh Situation. And I tried to convey that, hey. Dude, this is a Guest Kitteh. She's Visa Kitteh on a temporary pass, we are NOT getting attached until we at least find out that she's healthy and not going to give, like Rape Dumpster virus to the dogs, and even THEN I am not so sure about this, and also did I mention the HISSING and the LITTER BOX and just don't get your hopes up.
But, you know. Kitteh actually started to come around pretty quickly. After a few days, she started meandering up to me when I came in the room. She'd jump on my lap when I sat down. And suddenly, our dialogue went from "AHH FOOD HERE IS YOUR FOOD AHH PLEASE DON'T GET POINTY" to, "Oh, you're...hi... WHOA, YES, HELLO, THAT IS MY LEG. Am I supposed...you want lap? Wait, what? Rub you now? NOW? NO NOT THAT WAY, RUB YOU THIS WAY? Okay, I...oh, bye." And then she'd wander off again, and instead of parenting a teenager, it was more like dating an asshole.
But the icing on the proverbial litter box cake came when Brian came home, wisely decided to come kiss me before going to see the kitten (good choice), and met Guest Kitteh for the first time. And of course, Lady Bullshit McLiarboots just climbed right up on his lap, gazed up at him with these big sweet eyes, and purred. And I said: fuck. Now we have a cat.
Soooo, that was...the beginning of October, I suppose. And Kitteh has come very far since that time. She's decided that she likes us. Specifically, she's decided that she likes hunting us, and so she spends most of her time hiding behind doors, under beds, etc., before suddenly flinging her entire body -- pointy side first -- at our passing legs. She does this with full commitment, with all four legs spread apart so that she looks exactly, precisely like a flying squirrel. If flying squirrels came in a genus of "enormous, toothy, and fucking insane," she'd get confused for them all the time. As it is, whenever Brian or I go upstairs (she mainly stays up there), whoever is left downstairs can always hear a faraway, tiny "AHH" in response to her ambush, and we don't even bother with the, "Uh, you okay up there?" anymore. Because the answer is obviously no, and by now, we all know where we keep the Bactine. She's the same at nighttime, when she climbs up on our bed and, after the requisite strokes and petting, she suddenly switches modes to Mighty Hunter Of Whatever Is Moving Under The Sheets. And so we bleed some more. Yeah, cat people -- this is awesome.
During the day, she mostly keeps to herself; she and the dogs have met a few times, but there have been wildly different reactions, ranging from "our own personal Woodstock of love and peace, right here on the sofa" to "fishing hysterical kitteh out from behind the dryer after she was cornered by Bo for his eating needs." As a result, for the most part, everyone just sort of ignores everyone else, for now. Bo and Gimmme have always stayed downstairs anyway, because of Gimmme's pesky habit of "being blind" and what happens when that gets mixed with the existence of a staircase. (It goes like: THUD THUD THUD). Meanwhile, the kitty's litter box (EW) is upstairs, with her bed and food and toys, and so she just hangs out up there and waits for fresh prey. So, we've reached this weird equilibrium at the moment, with an upstairs kitty and downstairs dogs, but we figure she's going to start coming down more often as time goes on. And the dogs'll get more used to her, and then maybe they will realize that kitty is not a food. And kitty is pointy. I bet they learn both of those lessons at the same time.
Kitty has also come leaps and bounds with all those toys she hated so much. Before, we would dangle little mice in front of her, bat at her with the cat-batting-feather...thing, and squeak the squeaky rat in her direction. And she'd just stare at us, like, "...seriously?" and then wander off because we were so uncool, it actually made her physically uncomfortable.
All that changed about two weeks ago. Specifically, two weeks ago, at 4 in the morning, when we heard this:
squeak. squuuuuuuueak. squeaksqueak. squeaksqueaksqueak.
And this sound meant that kitty had suddenly discovered the wondrous, immeasurable joy of batting squeaky rat up and down the hallway, from her room to ours, over and over again, until We. All. Die. Because, squeaky rat is her favorite thing in the world, and she loves squeaky rat more than aaaanything, because squeaky rat is her BFF, and if you put squeaky rat on top of the credenza because it's 3:30 in the morning and you have an 8:00 a.m. meeting the next day, and please, PLEASE, just forget about squeaky rat for THREE HOURS, CAT, I BEG OF YOU: well. She will not. She will sit next to the credenza and wail in abject sorrow, all, "SQUEAAAAAKY RAT! R U UP THERE? COME DOWN! I LUF U AN U R MY ONLY FRIEND INNNA WUUUURLD" until one of us feels so bad about her grief that we go and get squeaky rat down and throw the fucking thing in the direction of somewhere else, and run back to bed and try to fall asleep before the reunion. At which point:
Siiiigh. Oh, and the other thing she does! We only found out about this the other night, when we woke up to this noise:
splish splish splish splish splish
And then suddenly, a cat with extremely wet feet jumped on the bed, and after analysis, it was determined that: the cat is...playing in the toilet. Kitteh looooooves playing in the toilet. She stands up on her little back tippie-toes and leans over the bowl, and then just bats at the water with her front paws. Splish splish splish. We don't...know why, and she's got a little paw-cleaning mat and everything in her room, but cat is just fascinated by the toilet. Which is extra-odd, considering the first night she was here, I tried to give her a bath, and she literally FAINTED in horror. Like, the poor creature went totally limp in the towel after I took her out of the tub, and I had this horrifying moment in which I thought I had killed the cat by bathing it, and holy shit, that's why cats are so scared of water, because evidently it makes them DIE. But she regained her senses after being rubbed on for a minute, so I guess water just stuns cats, but regardless: WTF with the toilet? Kitteh is fucking insane.
But, for all the insanity, and racket, and bloodshed...awwww, y'all. Brian is just the happiest guy ever. He looooves the kitty, he pets the kitty, and plays with the kitty, and resultingly has perpetual scratches all over his arms but he does not even mind because AW, KITTEH. According to Brian, our kitty is the softest kitty ever ("Like a bunny!" he marvels), the sweetest kitty ever (...?), the smartest kitty ever, the funniest kitty ever...basically, the Bestest Cat That Ever Catted, and indeed, I have been repeatedly informed that I am the most awesome, most favorite, most prettiest Bestest Girlfriend That Ever Girlfriendend, and he's just as happy as a clam. And so I'm glad I kept an open mind, I'm glad that I threw a feral animal in my car, and I'm glad that this time, AND THIS TIME ONLY, I didn't think this thing through.
And, well. She is pretty fucking hilarious.
INVISIBLE SHOPPIN CART. KITTEH STOCKIN UP. THANK YOU.
Thank y'all again for your love and wonderfulness, and I promise to be back soon with stories of debauchery, drinking, and dogs (and have you SEEN what we did to the house for the Halloween party? I KNOW!). But, as much as things change, they do stay the same, and this ain't Miss Kitteh. More doxies soon, and in the meantime, kisses to you all. And thank you, so much, again.
* * *
WHOA UPDATE: So, I wrote this entry last week and have been editing it, but I felt I should add a P.S to let you know that as of last night, kitteh has a name! See, I'd been calling her "Momma's little horseman of the apocalypse" and Brian was calling her "Lil' Baby Satan" and similar monikers, and then in a burst of inspired genius, I remembered: the Smurfs. And, y'all! Surely you remember the Smurfs, and probably you remember Azrael, the evil Smurf-eating cat that Gargamel had? But what probably you did not do was one day Google 'Azrael' because it sounded vaguely familiar and...you know, it was, like, Tuesday afternoon and you were bored and this was about three years ago and frankly I don't remember what led to that particular Googling, but point being: did you know that Azrael is also the name for the Angel of Death? So...evil cat, and angel of death. Hmmmmm.
I know! Are you having deja vu yet? This...remind you of anyone? If not, allow me to point out that, being that Kitteh's full name will now be Azrael Kitteh, that makes her nickname AK, and that, my friends, is a weapon involving bullets.
So, let's review. Azrael Kitteh:
1. Name of murder cat;
2. Name of angel of death;
It was so perfect, we wept together and had stationery printed. Because, hello, beautiful accuracy. Although we will probably keep calling her Kitteh, which I quite like because it lends itself to saying things like "Kitteh is angreh," and "Kitteh is hungreh," or "Kitteh is part of the vast right-wing conspiraceh." Whatever, though. Baby's formal now.
But, regardless of we call her, Azrael Kitteh has gone from guest kitty to perma-cat. And she makes Brian happeh. And that's good enough for meh.