…And then there are times you go slightly off the deep end, amiright?
And sometimes it looks like this:
You alert your husband to the fact that a neighbor is FreeBoxing (yes, a verb) an Ikea couch on Facebook and he agrees that, yes, it sure is a largish loveseat- and, oh, what, I should go get it? (Yes.)
So part of the day is reserved for hefting furniture and rearranging living quarters (two of his all-time least favorite things to do, if I’m being fully honest with myself) and another good section is taken up with the retrieval of more FreeBoxed items; among them, fifty (50!) vinyl grab-bag albums and a six-person tent. (Maybe so he can escape more household rearranging?)
But the deepest end to end all deepest ends? Oh, that’s when you take the kids downtown to the AntiCruelty shelter for Clear the Shelters Day. You have no intention of, you know, clearing the ol’ shelters, but your youngest kid has had a good stretch of successful pottying (stay with me, here) and everybody knows that holding puppies is a great way to say “I appreciate your recent bodily fluid-retention habits.” (If your kid digs dogs. Which yours does.)
But when you get to the shelter, the dog section is a legit zoo. Like, Supermarket Sweep for puppies. So you and your husband suggest the cat side as a perhaps quieter alternative. Fewer puppies, sure, but also fewer concussions.
But then your eldest finds a kitten. And this kitten is like- oh my God, you guys- this kitten. He’s a sort of sandy peach with faint, faint tabby stripes and he’s, well, there’s a reason kittens are a clichéd animal. They’re painfully cute.
And you know you don’t need a kitten. You know this.
But you also know that your oldest cat boys, Ender and Bean, are 13 and change. And they’ve been a bonded brother set since Day 1. And if something ever happened to either of them- which it won’t– the other would be left rather bereft and cat-shrieky and pitiful.
You’ve talked about this with your husband. You both agree you need a third kitten- someday- to join the crew. But not today. That would be dumb. That would be-
Oh my goodness. But then you somehow find yourself in one of the “playing with a kitty” rooms and this unbelievably chill cat is letting your seven year-old pet him. And your five year-old. And your three year-old, too. And just when you’re about to put him in your pocket, you see his thumbs.
He’s polydactyl, you guys. That means he’s got legit Mitten Hands, as in an extra thumbie on each paw, and it’s so cute you want to fall down. (But you don’t, because= tiny room/small kitten/five people.)
So you ask his name and it’s Ozzie. But he’s not really Ozzie, is he? Because he’s Arthur Dent, the sort-of protagonist from a Douglas Adams novel and series and yes, you and your husband are dreadful nerds but also now the owners of Arthur Ozzie Dent (whom your three year-old erroneously calls “Dentist”) and you already love this kitten/mitten creature so much it makes your heart hurt and…oh boy.
So that just happened to you.
And now maybe the whole “moving the couch” thing doesn’t seem like such a tragically hard deal anymore, does it P.J.?
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