It started innocently enough, as these things often do, with a phone call.
"I'm at the SPCA and they have an orange male kitten. He's really cute."
I didn't want an orange kitten. We'd had an orange kitten who died after one week in our home. Monday and Tuesday spent falling in love with our brave little Conan. Wednesday and Thursday calling the vet like over anxious parents. Friday, Saturday and Sunday visiting our little guy in the ICU of the emergency vet clinic. Monday making the decision that he had nothing left to fight with. They gave us a diagnosis, some infection which I never can quite remember.
So it's only been a month and as I drive to the SPCA, I know I don't want another orange kitten. I arrive to find Jason in the play room with an adorable handful of orange fur.
"It feels like replacement," I say.
There is a young couple waiting on my decision. They want him.
But, what's this? This unusually marked brown and white tabby kitten zooming around the room? He's cute. It takes me several tries to corral him, which should have been a hint of things to come. He struggles in my grasp, wanting to be free to stalk the toys. A little throat scratching calms him down and he purrs.
"He's cute. We could take him."
We consider the little brown furball. Well, Jason considers. I'm in love. We decide, yes, we are ready for another one. We go to his cage to get his card.
There is his brother.
There is only the two of them.
"I can't separate them," I say.
I'd had kittens long ago, as a child. But those childhood memories did not prepare me for the adult realities of having two kittens in the house.
Bert and Ernie are quickly renamed Thor (God of Thunder) and Loki (God of Mischief) and the chaos begins.