First off I’d like to thank the Kitsap Regional Library for getting Fresh Squeezed, my new novel written with Bonnie Biafore, onto their shelves so that their patrons can read it for free. I’d also like to put out the not-so-subtle reminder that you, too, can provide a Valuable Community Service by contacting your local library and asking them to get Fresh Squeezed as well. Thank you, and back to our regularly scheduled blog.

While the blog was on vacation, I was able to participate in innumerable opportunities for entertainment and socializing that I normally eschew, to, instead, concentrate for an hour or so and crank out the blog. Being something of a procrastinator, the blog usually happens on Thursday night which means I have, for over two years, not had a chance to eat on Thursday anything other than fast-food takeout. On vacation, however, I was open to other options and thus, one balmy Thursday evening a few weeks ago, we found ourselves standing at Carl and Lupe’s front door to take advantage of their dinner invitation.

I knocked.

Those of you who have been here a while will have just gone, “Oops!” full in the knowledge that almost nothing good comes out of the mention of their names. These are the people responsible for a still ongoing felony prosecution. They are the loving couple whose imminent breakup was forestalled by my cunning explanation of the male mind and why it was completely expected that Carl would be in possession of a large number of hairdryers. They are the ones who backed out of the aerial show forcing me to take over as announcer. They are the ones who, through a casual invitation, ended my wandering days. Most importantly, Carl and Lupe are responsible for the fact that there are now more different places for birds to eat in our backyard than there are for people to dine in all of Bainbridge Island, a place where it is almost impossible to be at one restaurant without having at least one other restaurant in your field of view.

The door opened and Carl was standing there holding a sweating glass filled with coffee color liquid. Ice tinkled against the crystal.

“What’s that?”

“Myers’ on the rocks, splash of Roses, and a squeeze of lime.”

My favorite!

I snatched the glass out of his hand as Lupe grabbed Ishya and led her into the next room. Carl closed the door and then held up his hands signaling me to wait.

A harmonic squeal came through the door, sort of a cross between Christmas morning and a wild animal being skewered. The door opened and Ishya entered holding a tiny bundle of orange fur.

“Isn’t she cute?”

At which point my eyes swelled shut, my sinuses filled, and a region just below my hypothalamus started itching like mad.

A cat! Actually, more precisely, a kitten. Just before my Eustachian tubes filled up with dander, I heard her say, “We should get some.”

I’m not fond of cats. They make my eyes itch. They smell like low tide, or worse. If they scratch me my skin erupts in livid inflammation while my immune system reacts as if invading troops had just hit the beach. They are haughty, aloof, unapproachable, independent, and standoffish – everything that, in fact, I already am. They break things, and then blame the dog.

Unfortunately, cats like me. I felt the wee kitten placed on my lap. Tiny feet moved around on my thighs as the pint-sized feline finally curled into a ball.

Then it purred.

“Oh, look!” Lupe gushed. “The kitty loves you.”

A couple hours later, after the epinephrine and Myers’ had a chance to take effect, we were all sitting around playing pass the cat. “Mrs. Twinkle-Pickle” (don’t you just hate cat names?) would be handed to somebody to allow them to bask in her cuteness, she would hiss and scratch – drawing blood – and then rush back, jump into my lap, curl up and start purring. I would sneeze, somebody else would grab the cat, and the cycle would begin anew; lather-rinse-repeat writ with dripping-red, needle-sharp claws.

The next day I found a number of internet links to Seattle area animal rescue organizations appearing in my inbox. I tried desperately to defuse the bomb by finding practical animals on those sites we could adopt. Things like pygmy goats, llamas, sheep, dogs even. To no avail, it looked like it was going to be a cat.

Saturday afternoon found us waiting in a strip-mall parking lot in Tukwila, Washington. We were there to meet “Stanley”, a pseudonym to be sure, who would be arriving shortly to drop off “Oxford”, also not his real name, and collect the “adoption fee”. It felt like a drug deal. “Stanley” arrived, scanned the parking lot for nondescript gray sedans, and thrust out a little black and white bag of fluff. Money was exchanged, papers were signed. “Stanley” started weeping, bent over and whispered something to “Oxford”, then dashed off to his car and sped out of the parking lot.

We had a cat.

We took “Oxford” to the car where he promptly slashed Ishya across the cheek, jumped onto my lap, curled up, and started purring. I sneezed twice – the cat didn’t even twitch – and my eyes swelled shut.

“I think you better drive.”

The ride home was like one of those movie scenes where the victim is locked in the trunk and they try to figure out where they are based on the turns and road texture. I figured we had made it to Portland by the time we turned into the micro-farm’s gravel lane and parked in the carport.

The fresh air of Bainbridge Island quickly restored my vision and we spent the better part of an hour watching “Oxford” getting used to his new surroundings. He sat there and howled plaintively for the mother he never knew. He’d go and take a nibble of food, start coughing, and then hack up a hairball. Lather-rinse-repeat.

“Oh, that’s so sad.”

Oh, no! Here it comes.

“He needs a friend.”

Which is how Sunday found us parked in a strip-mall in Silverdale, Washington waiting for the PetsMart to open for adoptions. There was supposed to be a lovely kitten here that would be perfect.

Said kitten sat cowering at the back of her cage jumping at the slightest noise, backing away hissing if anybody tried to touch her.

“She might take a little while to get used to you.” The adoption agent informed us. “She doesn’t seem to like any kind of stimulation.”

This didn’t bode well for a cat that would have to coexist with another cat, nine chickens, countless bees, the wild birds, and miscellaneous rodents. At the micro-farm, stimulation, if nothing else, grows like a weed. However, two cages over, “Dillard” sat watching the whole proceeding with a bemused expression on his face.

We took “Dillard” out of his cage and played with him a while. He was very mellow and well-balanced – if that can be said of a cat – and seemed like he would make a good companion for “Oxford.” More papers were signed and more money changed hands and, once again, I found myself in the passenger seat with swollen eyes and a purring bundle asleep in my lap.

The introduction went well and both kittens immediately took to chasing each other around the house, smashing everything in sight, and shredding every fabric surface – except for the high-dollar scratching tower, which they ignored. They fell asleep in the sun as we cleared the rubble.

On Monday we were confronted with the important task of selecting the cats’ final names. It’s very difficult, at best, to pick a name for a pet. For one thing, you have to take into account the pet’s personality and physical attributes. You can’t just reach into a hat and pick out a name, nor can you find a name you like and apply it thoughtlessly to something which will have to bear the burden for years. Many people weighed in, however, and while we were grateful for the suggestions – as well as endlessly amused by many – the weight of the decision could ultimately fall solely onto our shoulders.

We shortlisted some names and gave them a test drive. It really doesn’t matter to the cat what you call them, but having a cat named “Mrs. Pickle-Wickle” or “Monsieur Anything” brands the owner – forever – as a cat person.

Over the following weeks, the two names that rose to the top were Bixley – for the former “Dillard”, and Stache (pronounced Stash) – for “Oxford.” I admit that Bixley is more of a cat-person name than I would like, but an “x” in a cat name is never a bad thing. Plus, it makes him sound more sophisticated than he really is. The thing that hooked me, however, is that when I hear “bix” I immediately think of Weetabix, the rough, whole grain breakfast cereal, which has the look of un-sanded wood and a shredded texture which exactly matches the new look Bixley bestowed on my favorite reading chair in less than an hour.

Stache started out as a nod to a physical characteristic – he has half a white moustache – but grew to include his proclivity for hiding cat toys in my shoes. His cute little personality has also developed into something more resembling that of a low-end criminal who would be associated with boosting cars, knocking over liquor stores, and purse-snatching. His name fits perfectly.

So here I sit, writing, one cat asleep on my lap and one curled up by my feet. Both are purring. My allergic reaction has subsided as my immune system, completely overwhelmed, simply gave up and fled before the invaders. It is, in fact, a pleasant scene which could be improved only by the addition of one thing.

A puppy.