Remember my harrowing tale of trying to move with five cats? Ever wonder how crazy a person would have to be to get five cats in the first place? Well, this is how it happened. You see, I had two cats. Ryan had two cats. We got together. Boom, four cats.
Then one day we accidentally got a fifth cat. And then we accidentally named him Death Star. I realized pretty quickly that we have to stop answering the door when it’s little kids with kittens knocking. And that if I don’t speak clearly enough, Ryan will always assume I’m referencing Star Wars.
Hard lessons to learn, but I’m coping.
Anyway. Yeah. Five cats.
Two of the five cats don’t leave the basement. I don’t know if we’ve traumatized them with too much love or they’re pissed because we feed them Friskies instead of Fancy Feast or they’re still bitter that we ripped their chance at reproduction away from them. I don’t get it. But they’re reclusive.
The other three have no problem coming upstairs and spreading their fur far and wide across the house. Their perpetual gift to us. I feel so loved.
The good thing about having five cats though? They’re generally lazy and will sit in place while I snap a few photos. I still get the “I’m-so-bored-is-it-time-to-lick-myself-again” looks from them, but I like to pretend they’re just acting pensive for the camera.
Would you like to meet my five cats? Here they are:
So, what do you think? Should I let them stick around a while longer?
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