It was a bad idea, and I knew it. But like most bad ideas, it was based on desire rather than need. By entering the animal refuge armed with unrelated reasoning and low self -control, I knew that I would not leave empty -handed.
“Gilligan needs a playmate,” I said. It was a real declaration for our two -year yellow laboratory, which particularly required constant attention. However, the adoption of a kitten was a risky solution with all kinds of potential drawbacks.
Instead of facing the austere realities of cat attitudes, smelly litter bins, costly pets, rated furniture and increased veterinary invoices, I chose to focus on Instagram reels representing dogs and cats snuggle up or play together in precious camaraderie manifestations. I have placed my faith in articles on Googled declaring that kittens (as opposed to adult cats) often bind with dogs in the same household if the conditions are correct.
Having already owned Zuzu, a family cat who lived for 16 years, we knew the potential disadvantages of cat care. But Zuzu was our cat before Francis retired from the navy, so she endured six movements, complicated flights for pets and forty months during our tour abroad in England. It would be easier this time, I say to myself.
My husband, Francis, was doubtful, but I ignored his opinion and forged with my poorly designed plan. For my defense, I was influenced by our young adult children. “Go mom!” They propagate shamelessly: “The cat will become Gilly’s best friend!” The kittens are so cute! Do not worry about litter bins and pet guards – we will help! ”
It was washing, but as an empty nester, I guess I wanted another to be live to feed in my life. I wanted more connection, company and affection. And so, when I learned that the local animal refuge had taken several new kittens with foster family, we left.
I completed the registration forms required so that anyone can meet the adoptable animals. “The kittens go quickly, so there is only one left,” said the staff member by leading Francis and I in the corridor of cat enclosures. She left us in one of the small rooms where cats were kept in tidy cabins.
“There she is!” I exclaimed, seeing a lean black kitten hiding in bedding. His yellow-green eyes looked at us timidly. The map published on the enclosure listed it as a three -month house fabric. I reached the cube and gently lifted his tagged body with three pounds, and I held it near my chest, caressing the thin fur on its tiny bones. Francis held it too and she quickly started purring.
That was all it took. The staff could have warned that she had contagious diseases, would develop psychotic trends or were the Frai of Satan. It wouldn’t have been of any importance. She purred, then we adopt her, period.
Recovering its files at the reception of the refuge, I learned that our new kitten had been found alone at five weeks in a commercial area of Boca Raton, Florida, where it was encouraged until its arrival at our shelter of Rhode Island. His heartbreaking background wet only served to cement our fate – we brought the little guy home.
After a considerable family debate, we settled on the name of Minnow for our new family member, a nautical tribute to the 1960s sitcom which was the origin of the name of Gilligan. During the five weeks since she was with us, Minnow marked out her complaint in my home office and has not yet become friends with Gilly.
However, she managed to dirty seven litter boxes, to devour books of chat kibble, to disperse dozens of cat toys, to attract Gilly Gilly only to whistle, to make my office objects down, to climb her fishermen in my germs, weapons and my hair.
I now see that I have not made the intelligent decision to adopt a cat. On the contrary, whenever Minnow curls up in our towers to purr with love, touches our cheeks with its soft toys, or lick our skin with its thorny tongue, I realize that Minnow made this decision for us.