That Darn Cat

Carl and I have long resisted any pets other than the odd fish (the odd thing about them is they usually die within a week) or pet rocks, which usually keep the dust bunnies under the bed company.

Under the guise of being a good friend by getting a kitten to replace a beloved dead cat of her friend Phoenix (what a ruse!), Lucy brought home a kitten. We kept it for a few days expecting Phoenix to show up and claim the kitty for her own. That never happened.

After the kitty pooped and peed everywhere in our house and we threatened to give him back...we had named him. The first sign of resignation. His name is Ringo. Although, Carl, the biggest Beatle fan in the universe, has not once called the cat that. (Raoul, Rupert, Eddie, Phil, Roger Ramjet, Kitty-cat Berkowitz, to name just a few of the ones he's come up with.)

When we picked the name of Ringo (yeah, I picked it), it was at dinner. We went through several names and I suggested Ringo. Ava casually piped up, "That's a Beatle." Whoa. You should have seen Carl's face. I believe that must have been the proudest moment in his fatherhood...he beamed with a look that said, "I've raised these girls right!"

The girls have been so happy. They are very good about feeding him, cleaning his litter box (he FINALLY figured it out), holding him, cuddling him, walking him, playing with him and treating him like a sibling (which involves a lot of teasing, apparently).

Carl and I are happy too. This little guy is a part of our lives. He's playful and funny. We have laughed more and been more calm with a kitten in our lives. I'm the most surprised by this because I always thought cats were lazy and aloof. Not Ringo. He's a social, friendly little kitty who makes me smile. If I had high blood pressure, he would be the best antidote.