I have decided to fill all of my emptiness and holes with cats.
At first, I thought about bringing home a brand new kitten on Christmas Eve. I figured that I would scour all of the local adoption places and pick out the perfect kitty. I would make plans to pick up the kitten the day before Christmas and then surprise the whole family with a kitten in a box.
A box of kitten. A box of wine.
It just goes to show that boxes of stuff make awesome gifts.
Maybe I’d dress her up in a little Santa hat or place her in a fur-trimmed stocking.
I can hear the “awwws” as I type.
A few nights ago, I told W that I wanted a new cat and wanted to name her Merry.
“Why would you want to name a cat Mary?” she asked.
“Not, Mary,” I said. “Merry.”
“No, not Murray. Merry, as in Merry Christmas. M-e-r-r-y. But, now that you mention it, Murray Christmas would be an awesome name.”
W thinks that I pronounce certain words like banana and ruin and now, obviously, merry incorrectly.
Anyway, I’m quite smitten with the idea of a female cat or kitten named Murray Christmas, or just Murray for short.
But then I had an even better idea that would ensure a constant, never-ending stream of furry, adorable felines.
“We should foster kittens,” I casually informed W last night.
No!” she replied immediately without even giving the idea any thought. “I would get too attached, and they would make a giant mess in the house.”
I told her that I was just researching the subject and assured her that I hadn’t signed us up for anything. Yet.
Then I mentioned that if she wasn’t into fostering cuddly kittens that need to be bottle fed and socialized we could always volunteer to trap feral cats or feed feral cat colonies.
“I’m not sure what those jobs entail, but they were listed on the website,” I said.
Now, fostering a few sweet, soft kittens is looking pretty good to her.
So is Murray Christmas, for that matter.