The most horrible thing has happened. It became Feb. 2. Which means yesterday was Feb. 1. Which means I do not deserve to mother The Cats any longer, and The Fiance may as well win as The One They Love The Most.
See, I don't celebrate The Cats' birthdays, I celebrate our anniversaries. As in, the date in which I got them as wee baby cats. Chicken is my first-born. Five years ago when my beloved family cat died (sigh), I received a rowdy pussykitten from my parents as a sort of consolation prize. And, man, was she naughty. But, man, was she precious. All stick-straight-tailed and tiny and smelly and roly-poly. Sigh.
She was just six weeks old when I got her, and Mom tried unsuccessfully to convince me to celebrate a birth date approximately six weeks prior to receiving her, but I felt too bad to pick a random date that may or may not have been the date she was born. So I chose to celebrate anniversaries, instead.
And, I don't know if you know this or not, but I got her as an early 20th birthday present on FEBRUARY 1. Which means YESTERDAY was her anniversary, and I MISSED IT. I thought about it all week, and reminded myself to give her extra love and perhaps let her have just one bite of Harley. But I didn't. I FORGOT. And I may never forgive myself.
So in honor of Chicken, who spent her five year anniversary all alone, and probably brooded in a dark corner and threatened Harley's life while poisoning my gallon of milk in the fridge, happy five years of being the most precious and also mildly evil cat in the whole world.