Happy Friday, everyone!

No games or movies today, only very important topics.

With that out of the way, meet Pomegranate!

Pomegranate (formerly known as Mama Cat) has been in our neighborhood since shortly after we moved in. Why was that her old name, you might be asking? Well, she was very plump for a stray cat, and a few weeks after my wife started to pet her (and feed her…), she disappeared. A week or two later, she returns, a pair of kittens by her side – very Lion King-esque. So, she’s around well into fall, living her best stray life.

Then comes winter, and despite the warmer winters we’ve been having, it does get cold for a few days. We even have a snowstorm or two, as impossible as that sounds. So, my wife asks if we can take Mama Cat inside (who she has now begun to call Pomegranate to match our current fruit-themed name convention), but I’m hesitant after our last foray into dual-cat ownership.

Our last cat, Yugi, was a loveable old grump who was content with being an only child. Things didn’t go well when we brought another cat into the mix a few months before the COVID-19 lockdown. Fights, yowling matches, everything cats do when they don’t get along, it happened.

Tangerine, our loveable dumb dumb of a cat, seemed to be okay with the idea of another cat.

He would watch Pomegranate from his little cat tree or sit by the screen door when my wife went outside to pet her (and still feed her…).

Still, I wasn’t convinced, and I didn’t want to endure what we went through last time, so I said no again. I was the villain in Pomegranate’s story, but that’s just how it had to be. (If this tale were any more thrilling, I’d have made a spoiler alert, but the first photo of the blog already ruined any upcoming surprises.) A few weeks go by, and one of the two lousy snow storms arrives. My wife asks, “Please, please, please?” I say, “Fine, but only for one night.”

Whew, that night was rough. No fights with Tangerine, but that’s because Pomegranate was sequestered in our office (so no video games that night for me. Oh, I mean, no writing for me), and she was unhappy. She ruined a few blinds, yowled and whined, and kept my wife up for much of the night.

So, back outside she went the next day once the snow had begun to melt (yay, warm winters!), and she was back to living her best life. But my wife wanted to give it one more chance, or at least get her to the vets to make sure she could get her shots and that she was healthy.

Fine.

I guess it’s hard to say no to this face, after all.

Sunday comes around, and we have a vet appointment the next day, so the plan is to ensnare the stray with some cat food and then get her inside. But I’m pushing this plan for as long as we can, because I’m not too keen on a repeat of a few weeks before.

As the lazy Sunday rolls on, we’re on the couch watching Schitt’s Creek (yeah, we’re behind the curve on that one), and I hear what sounds like a gunshot.

I see my wife’s eyes go a little wide, and we check outside. Pomegranate is sitting by the bushes, doing her thing. She’s okay.

Now, we don’t live in a bad neighborhood, and who knows what we even heard, but all I could think about was how devastated my wife would be if anything happened to Pomegranate. So, this time, I ask if we can bring her inside.

The second night wasn’t as bad, but it wasn’t great. A few more broken blinds and a few hours of sleep later, and we’re taking Pomegranate to the vet. Everyone’s infatuated with the cat, and one expensive vet bill later, and we’re back in the car with our whiny cat.

Only, I’m not too sure if she should be our cat. The vet bill gave me a bit of sticker shock, unaided by the estimate for her spaying, and I started to wonder what we were doing. After a rough ride home, I still wondered. But was I ready to put her back outside, where a world often too cruel to all, let alone the helpless animals we so desperately hope to love, awaits?

I didn’t have the answer.

But I knew ice cream would make everything better.

So, I go out, grab some goodies, soulsearch, and try to find the answer I thought Rita’s Custard would have. In the parking lot alongside Old Columbia Pike, I realize that there are worse things in life than wanting to love and care for a second cat. I take the custard home, and say hello to my new cat.

You might be wondering how Tangerine is handling having a new sibling. He’s doing some soulsearching of his own, but by sitting in my t-shirt drawer instead of getting ice cream.

Cats are weird. Bonus Tangerine:

Until next week, thanks for reading.