Because Oskar is a boy cat, we thought we should really get a girl cat to keep things balanced in the house. I am not usually one to fall back on stereotypes divided along genital lines, but I wanted to avoid that male cat territorial, peeing-on-my-houseplants thing that I have heard can happen when you throw two males in together. So, we decided we'd get a girl.

Then we went to the animal shelter, and all the younger female cats were adopted out, and then we went to a large pet store that houses the animal shelter's extra cats, and all of them were male. I have a friend that has a female three-month-old, but apparently she's bitey, and I'm all done with bitey since Oskar transmogrified into a snarling foot freak. So, we ended up falling for this four-month-old boy.

He is, due to his being a kitten, sooooo cute. While the Fiery One was filling out the adoption forms, the newest household-member-to-be killed everything that the Fiery One was close to at the desk. Then, he cuddled and purred and touched my face with his feet. How could I refuse on the basis that he was sporting a rather impressive set of testicles? Oh hell, even his sizable balls were endearing.

Usually I am drawn to the sick and the downtrodden. There was a ratty little black cat whose stiff, twisted stubb of a tail spoke of some violently mutilating accident. He was perfect for me. There was sleek, grey adult female who gave off a sense of the creepy in waves. She obviously needed some good home loving. There was a brown tabby with fluid leaking out of his nose, squinty eyes, and a sneezing problem. That sort of obvious diseasedness normally grabs my heart by its arteries and drags me forcibly to the adoption papers and a pen. Yesterday, though, I took a sharp turn in the other direction and went all gooey over a healthy kitty who liked to cuddle.

Now I am wondering what the catch is.

My track record with finding well-adjusted pets who are relatively non-violent is not good, so I'm still holding my breath regarding the actuality of his cuteness. We might bring him home only to find out that he breathes fire and keeps a collection of his victims' eyes under the sofa. Of course, there's always a chance that I've lucked into a regular kind of pet that will do regular kind of pet things.

That last sentence feels like blackened foreshadowing.

My only wish is that the introduction of the one cat to the other will not result in too much fur and blood loss, because I woke up this morning with a left tonsil that was pretty much trying to kill me. The pain was so bad that I lay there and wept until the painkiller kicked in. When I called the local mediclinic to check on their hours, their answering service told me that they aren't taking walk-ins until Tuesday, so I am just going to have to suck it up, eat drugs, and pray that the kitties take one look at each other, realize that they are gay as the day is long, gay as gay can get, and busy themselves with setting up a happy lovenest for two.

I have lived with gay cats before. This can happen.

Sometime after noon today, we will have another addition to the collection of mammals in this apartment. I'll photodocument the moment from my prone position on the couch, where I will be fighting pestilence and revelling in all the furry cuteness I can handle in between bouts of yowling and bitch-slapping. It will be lovely.

Until noon, though, I am going back to bed to mull over my recent sins and figure out what I did that was so, unforgivably bad that I my left tonsil would torture me like this. I know that it absolutely can't be the smoking thing, because my left tonsil loves that as dearly as its own mucus layer.

Places I've been recently: Glyph Jockey, Citizen of the Month, and Felicia C. Sullivan.