Yesterday morning it was time to finally meet Unnamed Cat #3. Seeing how picky I was being about feeling a “spark” with a kitty and finding just the right personality, you can imagine my apprehension over agreeing to adopt a cat sight-unseen. The universe better not be fucking with me on this one.
And given that my biggest fear in life is confrontation (I legit have a coworker who’s been with us over five years and is my direct peer, yet he’s never once pronounced my name correctly; he’ll likely go to the grave with that distinction), I think we were all but guaranteed to come home from this “meet and greet” with the kitten. The short list of what would’ve forced me speak up and say, “thanks but no thanks” was likely limited to:
- Kitten was actually a large palm rat
- Kitten was actually a small possum
- Kitten was actually a stuffed animal
- Entire setup was a trap to ensnare us in a multi-level marketing scheme selling taxidermized kittens
At this point, the worst-case scenario was meeting the kitten and thinking, “He’s fine, but I’m just not picking up the right vibe. However, I’m mentally incapable of looking a human in the eye and saying, ‘sorry for texting you non-stop for 48 hours, but I’m just not feeling the spark'” (more flashbacks to my 20s) and thus we end up with a kitten I don’t really want but hey, I hear you can offload them on local FB groups so at least there’s that. Hopefully Hank won’t notice he’s missing.
Thankfully, none of that occurred. Nay, I think we got ourselves a good one. Phew.
He’s sweet, he’s playful, he purrs. He doesn’t hide. He’s not afraid of us. He likes to be brushed. And he’s already taken to the litter box. This kid’s a winner. So far we have him quarantined in our guest bathroom until he gets his first round of vaccinations and is given the all-clear to return to the office interact with Cash and Wynton. As for me, I’m typing this while camping out on a cushion on the bathroom floor, where I’ll be working until his all-clear means I can go back to my office — across the hall #WFH4EVER.
Speaking of Cash and Wynton, they haven’t officially laid eyes on their new brother yet, but it’s hard not to hear the little cry baby through the door. Cash’s reaction was to hiss, growl, and then smack Wynton upside the head, assuming it was all his idea to cause Cash yet another personal grievance. Wynton was thoroughly confused but apologized anyway. He may be part Canadian. And as such, he DGAF about the kitten. He’s such a sweet pumpkin, my Wynton. Cash has since calmed down. He’s hot and cold, that one. He may be part me.
As for Unnamed cat #3, we’re currently going with the name Marshall. You see, it started out that all my cats had to have jazz musician names. Hence Dizzy and Bird and Wynton. Cash was supposed to be Kermit until after 24 hours of calling him that, he, in typical Cash fashion, informed us that we were fucking idiots, and that that was not his name. Cash it was. And thus the jazz-only requirement was dead; we were now open to all types of musicians. Before we brought Marshall home, Hank suggested we name him after a rapper. I’m still not convinced that he’s not a Lil Wayne. But since I’ve been binging How I Met Your Mother nonstop, the name Marshall was on my mind. I suggested it to Hank who mused, “yeah, I like that…” “… as in Marshall Mathers… Eminem,” I clarified. “I LOVE IT. HIS NICKNAME CAN BE SLIM SHADY.” Insert my facepalming here. From that point on, we were pretty sure he’d be Marshall. And so long as he doesn’t get any legal advice from Cash and make a last minute petition for change, I think it’s going to stick. But it’s not too late to be Lil Wayne.
Ruby Roark 