So first — Hubs has built up a marvelous garden bed. Tomorrow he will fence and then we will plant! And yeah, being native Texans, we WILL most certainly be growing jalapenos.

Now on to the kitty.

For two years now, Tootie has begged for a cat.

At first, we put her off by telling her that we needed to wait until we move into a bigger house. But then, pummeled by pet requests — all because someone had too much to drink at a friend’s dinner party and may have agreed to a bunny, we found ourselves saying, “Well, what about a cat instead?”

(Yes. I was the someone.)

And lo, I found myself researching the available cats at area shelters.

I didn’t want a kitten. Everything I read suggested that it’s better to adopt an adult cat because the personality is defined by then. And we needed a cat that didn’t mind two kids, two dogs and a rather busy (read: loud) household.

People, I have found the most laid back cat ever.

He’s three years old. Was put up for adoption by Maumelle Friends of the Animals. And the description sold me. “Good with kids. Easy to handle. Loves to be petted.”

Sold.

I took the kids to meet Clem. Clem actually started out as Clementine until, when the vet prepared to spay her, it was discovered that she was a he.

Tootie decided we should name him Clinton because A.) It sounded dignified and B.) If we messed up and called him Clem, he wouldn’t be confused.

Unfortunately, as my children and dogs are well aware, I am simply unable to stick to proper names.

I love endearments. I love nicknames.

People, I have YET to call this cat by his actual name.

So it is with both pride (isn’t he cute!) and shame (please don’t mock my nicknames) that I introduce you to:

Mr. Kitty-Kitty/Mr. Meow-Meow/Mr. Kittykins.

I know. I KNOW. But really, he doesn’t seem to mind at all.