We adopted a three month old shelter kitten! Ah!

The husband is allergic to dogs. When tested as a child, he was allergic to cats, too, but apparently things have changed since he was five. (Surprise! …Or not, really.) Thinking for years we wouldn’t be able to have any adorable pet at all made us both rather sad (I grew up with a dog, and Bryan had always wanted a pet). Then a few weeks ago my friend and I found a van in Williamsburg with a whole bunch of cats and kittens for adoption. Playing with the little kittens absolutely tugged my heartstrings and when I told the husband, he decided we needed to talk about the reality of having him play with kittens to see if he was still allergic and if he wasn’t…

So, the quest to play with kitties was begun. Saturday we went to the local shelter, BARC, and played with half a dozen cats and kittens of a few different ages. A kitty named Rachel, though, stuck out from the start. She is extremely affectionate and unlike some of the cats, actually tolerated the husband’s novice attempts to hold her and pet her. (He had never held a kitty. Never!)

When I proposed changing it, the husband absolutely refused. (I thought it was a bit weird to call her something so human, but, well, then my reasons for that are tremendously complex.) We’re mostly calling her Rachel, but formally we’ve decided she’s Rachel Berry Kitty (a la Glee). Already we’ve started nicknaming her. I’m going to take her to the vet this week for the first time. Exciting! Is it weird to feel happy to be responsible for another life form? (Note: our potted herbs are thriving marvelously, hooray for not having a black thumb!)

In other news, the writing has been going swimmingly. I’ve written almost 8,000 words these last four days despite the kitty’s distracting adorableness. On the query front, I haven’t actually sent any new ones out in an age, so I’m going to get on that this week. In the meantime, though, I’m so happy to be writing this well and this much lately. Despite the increased hours for the day job, I’ve still managed to eek out a respectable word count per day (which can always be better, of course), so I’m immensely satisfied with that. I love the feeling of falling asleep with the story on my mind, thinking about what I’ll write next as I’m strolling to the subway or shopping for groceries. Having my mind so well occupied does wonders for me. The husband claims I am a happier creature to live with when I am thriving creatively and I think he’s right.