Imagine two cats curled up near the warmth of that blazing fireplace.
Now imagine three.
* * *
I walked into the laundromat and one of the Mexican guys who works there started meowing loudly.
As I walked towards the back to get quarters for the machines, he said to me, “You want cat? Free for you!”
The laundromat owner, who is Chinese or Korean (the same guy who owned the place when I left more than five years ago—greeted me in May as if no time had passed), confirmed that he has an employee who is probably allergic and a wife who is maybe not too crazy about taking care of two rambunctious kittens at home. A month ago already I had fallen in love with the white one with the Ash Wednesday smudge, when she was tiny, strutting across the counter looking wildly around for comical protrusions of the world that could be played with, pausing to rub against my arm as if we were old best buds. I had gotten as far as telling the laundromat owner, “If you decide you don’t want that cat, talk to me!”
Now the kittens have come home to roost. (I can really only take one. The other, whom I haven’t met close up, is black with white trim. Anyone?)
I told him I’m going away next week (to Chapel Hill) and wouldn’t be back till the 21st. Could he keep the cat till then? Sure.
Then? I’ll have to take her straight to the vet, at flamboyant expense, to get deflea’d, wormed, and checked out for nasty viruses before I combine her with my cats. I’ll need to find someplace for her to stay the night until she’s cleared. I’ll need to face the higher tower of cat carriers and the tonally enriched symphony of wretched yowls on my forthcoming drive down to Florida. Oy vey. What am I getting myself into?
Life. Life is trouble.