It's official. I'm on the fast track to being a cautionary tale.
My name is Deana.
I am single.
I now have 3 cats.
Four if you count the cat that lives on my roof and suckers me into feeding him 1-2 times per day. I don't count him though. He's just a part-time pet.
As if my hatred of putting away laundry and laziness about clearing the multitude of Diet Coke cans off the coffee table more than once every three weeks wasn't enough? Now I've brought in additional felines.
It's like the Hoarder Triumverate. Piles, trash, and cat hair.
The new kid on the block is named Pootie. Pootie Pootwell. Dr. Pootie Pootwell. Also commonly known as "Poots" or "Poots McGhee" to her friends. Or "Dixie", if you're the veterinarian. (Because, really, do you want to be the person checking in "Pootie Pootwell"?) She's a cat of many aliases. It keeps the Feds off her back.
Truthfully, the newest addition to the future A&E special is a cat whose mom, an owner of three dogs, married a man, also the owner of three dogs. Seriously, their house is the canine version of the Brady Bunch.
Pootie Cat -- she didn't really fit. And there stood a possibility of Jan Brady catching her by the tail and, you know, taking out all of her middle child rage.
So, we're on Day 10 of the Great Feline Integration Act of 2011. Land areas have been staked and claimed. Boundaries crossed. But no one has been seriously maimed. Yet.
Unless you count waking up with a 20 pound cat lounging across your forehead, chewing on your ponytail as maiming.
Then, yes, there's been some. Like I said, "Boundaries crossed".
Oh, and by the way, I did totally use the word "Triumverate". I'm a complete literary badass.