When one isn’t enough: cats

“This should be enough room for the cats,” I declared to my husband this morning. 

He was working in the spare bedroom/office/music jam room, which is also called the warehouse as it houses his collection of doo-dads and thingamabobs.  Sometimes the trundle beds are pulled out for friends and family and it becomes our luxurious guest suite.  In any case, today it was the office and he was doing business things from which he casually looked up and asked, “What cats?”

He was very nonchalant about it, but secretly I’m sure he felt a surge of nervous anxiety at the thought of the plural form of cat.  One cat was already pushing the limit of his cat tolerance.  There is something about finding cat hair everywhere, stepping on cold, wet hairballs, and early morning get-up-for-my-breakfast purring that gets on his nerves.

We were once a multiple cat household until my mom catnapped big George, old Wilma went to the great litter box in the sky and we were left with just one sickly white cat.  Miss Meow came to us through a series of unfortunate events, with ears blackened from mites and a skinny belly overflowing with worms.

Now she is fat and happy enough, but so alone.  My caternal instinct is kicking in and I can’t have my poor little kitty-cat lonely.  I’m confessing now, in my secret public blog, that I’m conspiring to adopt a box of kittens.  At least one or two, anyways, and then Miss Meow will be surrounded by friends once again.

They will be a gang of pals, just like on Stand By Me, the movie.  I imagine they’ll go traipsing through the hallway of our apartment looking for adventure, build a secret cat hideout behind the couch, and set up a field to play hairball underneath of our bed.

There’s just one obstacle that must be overcome before the pride can move in: my husband’s deep dislike/hatred for cats. 

What to do when one isn’t enough? 



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