I think there's laws against that much cuteness in an enclosed space. I sweartogawd I was this close to a cuteness coma.

So the hunt for a new cat has officially begun. Appointments have been made to visit shelters.

Tonight, though, we went to the home of a woman who has three generations of cats and simply can't handle them all anymore. I warned her that I can't promise that I will take one of her cats because a pet is a 15 to 20 year commitment. She understood that I want to take my time, choose carefully.

I walked in her front door with the spousal unit and seven insanely cute eight-week-old long-haired kittens charged us. They attacked our sneakers, batting the laces and then began climbing up our jeans' legs because they were so delighted to have new playmates.

I gritted my teeth.

Must. Be. Strong.

One of them climbed up high enough to worm her little head under my hand. She was unspeakably soft. She purred. I was putty in her paws.

Must. Be. Strong.

The next generation up from these kittens, three seven-month-old cats, strolled in. They are also long-haired, also very affectionate. They tussled adorably with the kittens. There was wrasslin', much mutual ear washing and random, senseless drive-by grooming. A poodle charged into the room. The cats began playing with him.

Clearly these are wonderful, happy, well-adjusted outgoing cats, lovingly raised by someone who adores the beasties. Oh man. I could have played with them for hours.

I know that any cat I get from a shelter is going to come with issues. It goes without saying they have been abandoned. Some have not only been abandoned, they've been abused. Although they have been saved from death, they have in essence been warehoused, haven't seen a lot of human contact. Heaven only knows what sorts of behavioural problems they're going to come with.

A kitten is nuclear strength cuteness. A kitten is a tiny perfect ball of love and optimism. A kitten would be so easy. It just about killed me to take the fuzzy little burr off my jeans and gently deposit her on the floor. We played a bit with the seven-month-old cats. Any one of them would make someone a wonderful pet. We told the woman we'd let her know next week.

Saturday afternoon we walk into our first rescue shelter, just over an hour's drive from our home. The woman in charge warned me that there will be over 200 cats in the room, many of whom desperately, desperately want the lives they used to have.

And, at most, I can bring home one. I thought it was hard to walk out of that sterile white room Monday knowing my beloved cat was going to die. It's going to be another kind of hard to walk into those shelters, look at all those pleading eyes, and choose just one cat.

Well, maybe that's not exactly true.

On the way home from visiting the universe's epicenter of cuteness, I mused aloud about what we'd seen. I mentioned that it would be wonderful to have a kitten but there's no way Zubby would tolerate it. The only way I could bring in a kitten would be to bring in one of its older step-siblings, one of the seven-month-old cats, to play guardian. That, of course, wasn't feasible.

"Oh, as if there was ever any thought of bringing in just one cat," the spousal unit said, rolling his eyes.

Normally I really, really hate it when he rolls his eyes at me, but tonight, tonight I reveled in his scoffage.

Two. Maybe we'll take two. Somehow Saturday doesn't feel so hard now.

--Marn

Mileage on the Marnometer: 370.76 miles (596.7 kilometers)
Goal for 2003: 500 miles - 804.5 kilometers