On October 10, 2017, a kindle of kittens arrived, filling the mud room of the country home with tiny mews, squeaks and squirms. We didn’t have a clue.

Not until almost two months later did Smuffy hand me a gift bag for our anniversary. It contained, mysteriously, a can of kitten food. Since we had no cat and hadn’t had one for a decade, I stared at Smuffy, speechless.

“You don’t want a cat,” I finally managed to utter after he asked me if I intended to say anything.

“But you do,” he smiled. “And life is short, and I’m ready, and you need to get a kitty. That is, if you want one.”

I lapsed into another stunned silence for a bit and then a conversation started that lasted for the rest of the day.  Here we are enjoying our anniversary dinner and still talking about it.

My main concern was that Smuffy might not be ready to become a kitty-daddy – heart and soul, that is. The last thing I wanted was to end up in a situation where he put up with a cat around the house for my sake while secretly hating every minute of it.

Once he assured me that he’d been thinking about it for months and was fully ready to commit, I got downright giddy at the thought. Since December isn’t really the season around here for “please, please, pleeeeeease take one of these kittens off my hands”, my word of mouth efforts yielded no leads.

I made a bold move and tried social media, hoping that I wouldn’t be swamped with 150 offers to wade through as I tried to make a decision.

Oddly, just one prospect appeared who had two kittens ready for a home. They both happened to be females, which I wanted, and the photos were adorable. On December 7^th, a mere five days after Smuffy lost his marbles and made the offer, we adopted Phoebe June and it’s been nothing but fun, games and squirt-bottle discipline around here ever since.

And Smuffy, you ask? His heart melted and within the first week she’d become his little “Junebug”. When it comes to kitty discipline, he dreads nothing more than having to be the bad guy. Let’s just call him Mr. Marshamallow.

As for myself, I didn’t know how much I needed Phoebe June until I got her. We romp and play as though she’s four weeks old and I’m four years old. Well, I haven’t dressed her up in doll clothes or anything, but I’ve come pretty close. I determined to keep her from being fearful of every little thing by harness “training” (and I use that word loosely because, she is, after all, a cat) her and taking her everywhere. Now, she’s a social butterfly and is not neurotic, but everybody thinks I am!

We’re celebrating around here today with a couple of extra toys from the dollar store, some “big girl” food and a trip to the vet to weigh in. You might think the latter would be enough to ruin a birthday for most cats, but Phoebe takes the kitty doctor in stride, along with her trips to see Amy Egglady, window shopping or popping in to see friends.

Happy 1^st Birthday, Phoebe June! You’ve come a long way from the little powder puff nestled in the palm of my hand.

Cat years are calculated differently than dog years. It proceeds faster at first and then slows down to a ratio of Human: 1 = Cat: 3. Right now, Phoebe is supposed to be the equivalent of a twelve-year-old. We might just be moving into more exciting times. Hmmm…

I keep this Shakespearean quote above Phoebe’s playhouse –

As you can see, it suited her from the start.  Born to leap, Phoebe June flies through the air with the greatest of ease all without the need for a trapeze. Add to that the fact that she is emotionally clingy, loudmouthed and opinionated and you’ll have but a mere hint as to how our “empty nest” household has changed.

In fact, Phoebe June talks non-stop! It should have been no surprise to discover that she’s been keeping a diary. I’ll be sharing some of her thoughts and experiences with you whenever I can manage to sneak a peek without getting caught.

I’d love to hear from you, so leave a comment!

Coming up Next:  I’m finally getting around to those hearty fall recipes I promised.  You’ll get FREE PRINTABLES, too!