I turned thirty last week, and Andrew got me a cat so that I can live my dream and become a childless old lady who smells slightly of piss and dresses her animals up in hats and dungarees. We adopted him through the DSPCA, and spent an anxious day on Monday waiting to hear if our application had been approved and if they'd received the note from our mammy email from our landlord to say that we had her approval. I think I called them eleventeen times in the space of an hour on Monday. They didn’t answer the phone, of course, so I left slightly hysterical messages and kept refreshing his profile on their website, waiting for his status to change to “RESERVED, MOTHERFUCKERS!” (it didn’t, and it’s still there, so I’m only a little worried that they might call and say they’ve made some terrible mistake and then they’ll try to wrestle him back off us even though I’ve already bought him a scratching post and some catnip and a bed that he won’t sleep in and some toys that he won’t play with because he prefers string and ladies’ pantyhose). But they probably only update the site once a week. They did call us back eventually and we picked him up on Tuesday evening. Since then, he's mainly been hiding under the bed.
The frame, like the post, is ironic. I solemnly swear not to turn this blog into a "what my cat did today" one. I'm too vain for that. His name is Biscuit. Isn’t he cute? Andrew keeps telling people that he has his eyes, just to crank the OMFG-turned-thirty-and-worried-we-can’t-get-pregnant-so-getting-a-cat creep factor up to eleven.
