Last Thursday, Petunia passed away. I was planning to send the little angel to school and then pick her up and go to shelters to look for a new cat, but when she said goodbye to Petunia she was crying too hard to speak, and then so was I, and we agreed she would stay home so I could take her to shelters over lunch thanks to my extremely empathetic and understanding managers. Beloved, who had the job of taking Petunia to be put down, deferred this adventure in favor of jobhunting, because of course we need all the bad things to stop as soon as possible, and all I want for Christmas is a two-income household.

The little angel and I cried our way through the first several hours of the day. When I started crying on my co-worker during an editorial meeting, I said enough is enough. I packed up the little angel, a list of shelters and a large and small cat carrier (the small one is a bag that some cats refuse to enter) and off we went.

The first shelter was actually a vet. All four kitties were adorable and declawed, but there wasn't that pang of connection we were hoping for. The second shelter I had never heard of and none of the information on the website for the individual cats sounded very encouraging -- I like to have the "housetrained" box checked even for cats. It just makes me feel better. But when we got to the Kansas City Pet Project shelter, there was a sign outside that said "Preowned Cats," and I was encouraged.

In we went. The cat room was small and packed with floor-to-ceiling cages and another big cage in the middle. I was overwhelmed. I started chatting with the cat ladies, who were beyond awesome, and wandering around the room opening cages and searching for our cat, all the while holding back tears because I didn't want a new cat, I wanted PETUNIA.

Until I saw him. Sir Charles Buttonsworth. A sixteen-pound Manx with facial markings that look like a mustache. Who is allergic to seafood.

Sir Charles Buttonsworth

Against my better judgment, I hefted Sir Buttonsworth out of his cage. (There is no picking him up, there is only hefting him.) He turned his head to look at me. His face is long and he always looks sad, even when he is purring his ass off, which is all the time, because nothing bothers this cat. I carried him around the cat room, trying to interest the little angel in him, but she was looking at all the cute, perky, kitten-like and infinitely more sensible cats.

I talked to the cat lady. Sir Buttonsworth is declawed. But he needs special food. And clumping litter, because the last person who adopted him brought him back because he pooped outside the box without clumping litter. And because he was farting, probably because he was eating seafood. And by the way, Sir Buttonsworth takes shits like a human, just so you know.

And they weren't exactly sure how old he was.

I knew I was going to go all Island of Misfit Cats and adopt him. So I deferred from The Plan, which was to get only one cat -- unless we found two that had to be adopted out together -- and asked if the cat ladies through Sir Buttonsworth would be okay with a friend.

"If you're looking for a declawed cat, you might like Kismet," she said, and pulled out an overgrown kitten with huge eyes who always looks surprised.

Kismet, who has become Kizzy, because he's spazzy and not because of Roots

Kismet snuggled up immediately in the little angel's arms and is only 20 months old. Would they get along? The cat ladies were so excited someone might be taking Buttonsworth that they immediately put us in the break room with Sir Buttonsworth and Kizzy. They pretty much ignored each other and hung out. I asked lots of questions about what might happened if they started attacking each other and was assured they would work with me if that happened.

I thought about it for approximately 30 seconds. Kizzy was the insurance policy against an overweight and maybe middle-aged Manx with digestive problems that I could not leave behind. And also very cute. And also more the personality the little angel really wanted -- a pet who would play with her.

Every decision this time was made with the little angel in mind. I know she always wished for a closer relationship with Petunia, who really preferred quieter adults. With all the neighbor kids and friends in our house all the time, I really wanted a cat who would not freak if a strange child reached for its face.

So we waited forever for Kizzy to be chipped and Sir Buttonsworth's food type to be documented. Then we stuffed the cats in the two carriers and headed out to Vicki the convertible. We just barely fit the big carrier in the backseat.

As we drove away, I realized I had to go buy the special food before we went home, as well as another litter box. The cats were not happy. They made pathetic meowing sounds all the way to Petsmart, and I saw my hands shaking on the steering wheel and realized my blood sugar was tanking out since I hadn't eaten all day. And we had ten minutes before my next conference call.

We jogged around Petsmart looking for this special food, which the shelter thought didn't require a prescription but both required a prescription yet didn't exist on the Petsmart shelves. I bought the litter boxes and litter, called my vet to see if they carried Science Diet, and hurtled my way back to the car to hop on my conference call.

At this point, we'd been driving around for about 30 minutes and were 15 minutes from the vet.

I was making good on the conference call, having looked at the comps while waiting at the shelter, and I was totally congratulating myself on my multi-tasking and imagining all the food I would eat when I got home when I recognized the unmistakable smell of cat shit wafting from my backseat.

I muted my phone.

"Did someone ... poop?" I asked.

The little angel just pointed at Sir Buttonsworth's cage, her face a mask of shock.

I felt the stress of the day quadruple. I was driving around the greater Kansas City metro during the workday and during a conference call with a child who should be in school and two strange cats, one of which had just shit in his carrier.

I hung up the phone, rolled down the windows, and stepped on the gas.

When we got to the vet, I told the little angel to stay in the car with Kismet while I tried to get the food and get the poop out of Sir Buttonsworth's cage.

As I was trying to explain all this to the receptionist at the vet, she told me Science Diet B/D doesn't exist for cats.

I lost my mind. Tears were pouring down my face, and I was telling her about the poop, and she told me I would need a prescription but the vet would have to see the cat for that and then I was mumbling about my husband being unemployed and money being tight and Petunia being put down at this very vet this morning and how I hadn't eaten yet and my daughter was in the car with yet another cat and this kind vet came out of the back and told me new cat visits were free and please come in the room and she'd take care of the poop. So I went and got the little angel and Kizzy and we went in the room and let the cats out and then I started worrying they would hate each other but they didn't and the receptionist came and took away the poop and hosed out the carrier and someone else told me there was free biscotti in the front by the coffee.

And I texted my editor that my new cat shit in the car, because I'd just bailed out of a conference call with no explanation. And bless Julie's soul, that is enough of an explanation for her.

So the cats checked out, and the vet called the shelter, and we think we have the right kind of food (though I don't know, because Sir Buttonsworth has yacked five times in the past two days and the shelter is closed today).

So finally we got the cats back in the car and home and Beloved told me I was fired for bringing home two unrelated cats, but it's okay because he has since fallen in love with both of them, even Kizzy who keeps climbing the bookcases and who has a terrible cold and needs to go back to the shelter vet tomorrow because if he sneezes in my face again I will stick him outside for the squirrels.

But I love him.

So I made some soup and went back to work and managed to pull off a few more things and my managers were so great and everyone wanted to see pictures because they know how much I loved Petunia and how incredibly stressful losing a cat is normally and then on top of a really stressful holiday season with everything that's gone on and I might have a teensy tiny problem with anxiety in the first place.

That night, the little angel went to bed with not one but two cats on her bed and woke up with Kizzy on her pillow, and she is over the moon with these cats. And even though we still have to work out the transition and the sneezing the barfing, I am, too, even though if I let myself look at Petunia's chair I am still sad.

But as the days pass and the boys get more comfortable here, I know I will grow to love them dearly, too, and it feels very good to have let not one but two cats win the Holiday Cat Lottery to come live at Chateau Travolta with Beloved, the little angel, me, Charlie and Sebastian the hermit crabs and Simon the fish. And we pray at night that Petunia is easing into her new apartment in cat heaven with a full box of mouse popsicles and Bella and Sybil down the hall.

PS: The vet must think I am INSANE.