We haven't had a cat for awhile, because we were renting, and you know how landlords (many of them) don't allow pets.
|Photo by: Mya Jamila, courtesy of Flickr|
We promised our granddaughter that once the floors were done we'd get a cat, the main idea being getting any new pet takes some work and we didn't want to be knee deep in flooring when the cat arrived.
This morning she asked me, "So grandma, are the floors done yet?" She walked around pointing to the spots that weren't. She already knew the answer.
She told me she wanted a striped cat. My grandson added, "One like Garfield."
It seemed a good choice.
I started to think about all of the things we needed: a water dish, a food dish, a leash, cat toys, a kitty litter box, litter...
My husband said, "Remember, the cat will be a downstairs cat."
I envisioned a stop sign at the top of the stairs.
Photo by: Arlette, courtesy of Flickr
"I don't think he'll stay there," I said. "He'll have to be trained."
He smiled and we decided on a week from this Saturday. It seemed a good time, one in which we'd all be home to take care of the new kitty.
I thought about all of the time I spent writing, and hoped an addition to the family wouldn't cause too much initial grief. I wondered what the new striped cat would think about our home, about our work, about our cooking habits.
Would he be satisfied with his food? His sleeping quarters (downstairs)? The noise of the children?
I imagined a well-adjusted cat, one that slept a lot and didn't go for marking his territory or using the new blinds as a scratching post. A short-haired cat would be best, one that didn't leave cat hair everywhere I didn't want it.
I realized, that even if the cat was better adjusted than I was, I'd need to make an adjustment on my writing; if only to remind him that the potty was in the basement.