I’m Pretty Sure It’s A Boy Cat. I Swear.

Hubs is cheating..

I know I’m right. I’ve seen her with my own eyes. She is beautiful. Shiny black hair; slight frame; green eyes; extreme grace; I’ve watched her carefully as she sashayed away from my house, in the minutes before my car pulled into the driveway. I’m not mistaken. Hubs has done this to me before, so I know the signs.

The garage window is partially open for her; there are empty food cans in the trash barrel; and last night, I came home a few minutes early, and I caught Hubs red-handed; he was watching her eat.

Last time Hubs fed a stray cat, she gave birth to five anchor babies in our front planter. And the next day, Hubs left town on a business trip, so I had to feed, water, and find a no-kill shelter for five nursing anchor-kittens, and their ferocious maternal beast, before they were eaten by coyotes, stolen by hawks, or worse: loved by our teenager.

Oh, and did I mention I am severely allergic to cats? As in anaphylactic shock, allergic? Yeah. Well, I am. Plus cats creep me out and make me have fake-OCD tics. And so just passing through the garage to replenish water, blankets and food everyday before and after work required a major production of head-to-toe haz-mat gear… and then a shower. While Hubs enjoyed the Zack and Cody style hotel life: maid service, restaurants, room service, magazines and premium channels.

And after a week of anchor-kitten-life, I told Hubs, it was me or the stray cats. The Cat Rescue Weirdos kept rescheduling, and I was at my wits-end. And Hubs swore to me if I kept the anchor-kittens and their ferocious maternal beast safe until the Weirdos could come and pick them up, then he would never-ever feed another stray cat. Ever. Again.

Until now.

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