Last May, Mrs. Wookie is miserable. Mr. Wookie is also at loss for words, but with a impending two-plus-month Navy-need on his calendar, has other focuses. They talk briefly about what if Mrs. Wookie were to venture down to the Humane Society, or Petco (they have cats for adoption frequently), or another no-kill organization for feline creatures who have graced the world without a loveable human to call their own. There's never a shortage for short hair'd females with a pension for snuggling. Never.
"It'd be your cat then."
But this plan is a last-ditch effort. I would attempt his summer-long detachment as "deployment preparation." I would hang out with "my Wives," I would have my hobbies, I would go to work, and I would rock the shit outta my Dinners for One With Enough Leftovers For Lunch The Next Day.
I wouldn't troll the shelters and adoption fairs until there were a multitude of scars on both my wrists and liver.
*screeeeeeeeching breaks* Woops. It looks I skipped the scars on my wrists.