My wife and I both love cats. We’ve cohabitated (who can say they own a cat?) with quite a number of them over the years. But I thought we had reached our limit. Apparently, Irene disagreed…
It started like this. Irene said she was going with a friend to help her pick out a cat. I jokingly said “don’t bring home another!” We have six cats already, and long ago decided that we were not adopting any more until our current clowder had passed on to the great mouse ranch in the sky.
Naturally, Irene saw a cat that “needed” a home. Don’t all cats at shelters need homes? And this particular one was perfectly healthy, young, and attractive: she needed no help from us. But Irene dwelled on her. She claims she couldn’t sleep that night because she kept thinking about her.
The next day, Irene called me at work. She pleaded and cajoled (“She’ll be my birthday present!”). She whined and begged (“Please! I’ve always wanted a ragdoll!”). She started negotiating (“I’ll make sure all the cats always stay in the house now, just like you want!”). I finally broke down. I’m a male: in the face of the kind of onslaught I’m describing, can any man say they can stand steadfast? Yeah, right, you lying weasel.
So, ElCee came into our life. She came with the name Jewel, but after some thought Irene and I agreed she should be named “L.C.”. It stands for Last Cat. And I intend to make it stick this time…yeah, right…
