So instead of blogging about my wordcount (currently: 0—but I'm ahead of schedule, and don'tjudgeme) or about my eventual debut novel release (Blood of the Wicked, just in case you were, you know, curious), or about the various ways I like my heroes (much like I like my coffee: stuffed into a sack and slung over the back of a donkey by Juan Valdez). Instead, I'm opening the shutters, beating away the dust bunnies—but not the dustbun, as that would be cruel—and offering you lovely voyeurs a peek into my home.
This is life in the trenches, folks. Real gritty stuff. (Not really, but hey, life can be its own trench, right?)
I dare you to read this, to look at these pictures, and then tell me what you would have done...
I hav—ahem, had three cats. From top to bottom, youngest to oldest, we had Lucian (the Princeling), Olivia (Princess Pantaloons), and Kabriel (the Tank).
Let me take a brief detour and describe to you these animals...
Kabriel—easily the largest of the three. Easily larger than two and three put together. The cat weighs about 25 pounds of solid freaking muscle. He's a tomcat all the way (and don't get me started on how adorable he was when he was just a baby ball of white dryer lint).
He's also a scaredy cat. Classic. He's so afraid of life that he spends all day hiding under the bed, and only comes out in the earliest morning to hunker in bed with us, or out in the evening. (At night, he stalks the halls like some predatory beast of prehistoric ages past...)
He's so afraid that when a car door slams out in the parking lot, he growls and flees to the safety of the bed. That's my guard cat.
Olivia—truly the princess of the lot. She's the most catlike of all our cats... well, except for the fact that she plays fetch and stares at the door all day until her man comes home. She's affectionate (when she wants to be) and sweet (when she wants something). Otherwise, hands off, please.
She won't have much to do with me, mind.
Lucian—It's so hard to be a little black cat. This princeling lounges all day, until he's decided that he's had enough and wants attention right bloody now. At which point, he jumps into the nearest lap and hunkers down for an extended stay.
The catch: If one of us is home alone, we're so not worth his time. But the instant someone else comes home, he comes to visit. Apparently, this one needs an audience of at least two to feel appreciated.
Then, we add Juno, our rabbit, and we've a full house. Plenty of furry love to go around, right?
The mancandy is, shall we say, a bit of a soft touch. He can't turn away critters in need. We rescued Olivia from a horrendous situation, and picked up the two boys from cages at our vets' office. That said, the very last thing I expected when he got home from work yesterday were the following words...
"Don't be mad at me!"
...Followed closely by, "This is Charlotte."
Um... Excuse me?
I turn around, and there's this little white... thing in the mancandy's arms. I call it a thing because, let's face it, when one is dreading the result of looking too closely at a Tiny White Ball of Cute, one hesitates to name things.
Except he already did.
Apparently, this little girl was being dragged through the mall by several unpleasant kids. I'm not sure of the exact details—all I know is that I took one look into those soulful blue eyes (erm, the mancandy's, not hers), and I knew it was too late for me to decide anything.
She'd stolen his heart.
Well, that part of it that hadn't already been neatly claimed by the other four animals.
What else could I do? I became a Field Marshal. A drill sergeant. With the speed of thought that would make any battle commander proud, I marshaled the troops (i.e. his attention), and laid down a battle plan. First, a bath. Then, a trip to the store for some emergency flea medication for all the animals—this little girl was crawling with them.
Then, a house cleaning session.
The mancandy's pleas for mercy availed him nothing but my laughter and scorn! Ha ha ha ha! There would be no mercy for the weak of heart!
Well, what I actually mean to say is... No rest for the strong of compassion. We owed it to this little girl to give her a good home, a cleaned home, and one free of any fleas she carried in.
Oh, and her name really isn't Charlotte. She doesn't look like a Charlotte, and while we always name our animals after romance book characters, we couldn't agree on a name that suited. Until the mancandy suggested, "Hey. What about Naomi?"
It stuck. She's a Naomi.
So you tell me: could you have looked into these sweet blue eyes, hearing her purr so happily, watch her as she inched across the carpet to rest her chin trustingly in your palm, and made any other decision?
... I'm such a sucker.
Do you have pets? Can you imagine life without them once they've taken over your heart and home? And what do you name them? (Worth pointing out: Xaphod Beeblebrox was jokingly offered as a name, but I was afraid that she'd grow a second head just to spite us if we did...)
Oh, dear. Four cats and a rabbit? I'm her... I'm the Crazy Cat Lady.
Is this where I put on a funny hat and start laughing maniacally?