The Central Registry of Cats aimed its eyes or radars or chemoreceptors at me.
I was intermittently whining to a friend how much I miss Max. On Monday, she said I have a cat for you and pointed me to an offer of a Russian Blue commenting that she's not exactly British but blue enough, and she's even on a diet. I was thinking about it, after all, life has been a bit messy and maybe adding a cat to it might not be the best idea but then I thought that damn it, a cat won't make it any worse and contacted the shelter lady who gave me more information, vouched for me with the owner... and the thing started getting rolling.
On Tuesday, the shelter lady from whom I got Max messaged me whether, just in case, I would not want another British Shorthair. Oh fuck, I thought to myself, I was sort of vouched to adopt the Russian, looked at the picture (squee! Plushy kitty! The widdle ears!), thought about it for about two seconds whether it is reasonable to get two cats and decided that bite it, asked vet friend whether a healthy cat can eat urinary protection diet - yes, sure, it's a good prevention of urinary problems - and said that, well, yeah, I'll adopt him. After all, the Russian likes company.
On Wednesday, I told about this to a friend and she responded Oh fuck, I just wanted to ask you whether you wouldn't adopt our Agata, the other cats bully her and don't let her pee and eat... I told her that, ahem... well, I'll think about it.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment