It seems I am building my own version of Noah’s arc. I have no divine purpose, no big boat in the yard, no message from above. Not even close. I just seem to like the number two and all the creatures in my home seem to come in twos. Honestly, all I need now is a plumber to round out the construction crew and I’m good.
I needed another house pet like I needed another unfinished renovation. Last week I ended up with both. I am now down one entire bathroom, after the Carpenter’s demolition mission, and I am up one wayward kitten, with a demo plan all her own.
Our home already contains a collection of creatures, two-by-two. There are the dogs, Blake and Riel, named for righteous Canadian history figures, but with death-defying bouts of gastrointestinal issues. There are the hamsters, Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare’s tragic lovers, but with wood chips and Houdini-like escape tactics. We have two children, adorable, high-maintenance creatures with attitude to spare. That leaves the one turtle, Troy, of High School Musical fame, and Calvin, (whose sister, Hobbes, has passed on). Calvin is now 17 years old and preparing for his finale of nine lives.
So what do I do? I rescue a kitten. She found me, I didn’t find her. Our paths crossed in on an otherwise average day. She was sickly, scared and hungry. She needed me. Truth is I needed her too. I just didn’t know it yet. That’s how it happens.
I expected the Carpenter to be a hard sell. I did what I always do when I desperately want to get my way. I called him at work so it sounded urgent. I prepared my argument. I talked really, really fast. It leaves him little chance to interrupt. There was a slight lilt in my voice, cracking with emotion and the threat of overflow, bordering on pleading. After a pregnant pause, purely for the sake of his own amusement, the Carpenter acquiesced. “Go ahead. You know you’re going to anyway.” And that, my friends, is how you get your way.
Naming our new kitten was not so easy. Of course, I pushed for a Canadian namesake. The family voted against Trudeau, Laurier and Nellie, (McClung for those of you who didn’t pay attention). I suggested a Canadian writer; Maggie, as in Margaret Laurence or Alice, for Mrs. Munro. Nobody was amused. My children wanted the usual: Scout, Rascal, Squeakers. The Carpenter made a suggestion too, “Let’s name her homeless, and send her on her way.” Very funny.
Then it came to me. “Let’s name her Mon Chat. It means “my cat” in French. Get it? Who is that? It’s Mon Chat. I was so pleased with myself. The Carpenter, unimpressed with my bilingual brilliance, altered his French slightly. I’ll let you decide what other word “Chat” could sound like, but it was neither funny nor appropriate. He found himself quite amused, nonetheless. I covered the children’s ears, before it caught on. The Carpenter was not allowed in the final vote. Mon Chat was democratically declared to be our new kitty’s name. There is no referendum scheduled at this time.
Now all I need is a plumber to round out my team. If the plumber comes with a turtle, that’s even better. If he can finish the recently destroyed bathroom in less than a month, I’ll keep him too.