How much is that kitten in the cardboard box?

So where were we???

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.

7.5 weeks.

Innsttteaaaaad, life intervened with lemons. Lemons a little earlier than expected. And definitely requiring some accompanying vodka when I break the news that, "Babe, I brought a cat home."

Born under the house of my boss' husband's cousin's house (get all that?) was a litter of "junkyard" kittens (as I call 'em), that had the best chance for domestication and a better life if they could just find homes.

My boss knew I wasn't ready for another animal, but asked to just spread the word.

Then...I heard the details on the litter. There was one short hair female. And she's due for a home.

Shit. Hopefully she has a pension for snuggling and ability to refill drinks. Okay, one out of two ain't bad.