Once upon a time, I wanted a kitten. I wanted a really unique kitten that had one or more of the following qualities:
1) Is under 5 months
2) Looks like a tiger
3) Has heart shaped spots
4) Is primarily gray or white
5) Has two different colored eyes

So, I tra-la-la-ed my way to my company’s no-kill animal shelter to find my magical kitten.  The cats were watching Animal Planet on flat screen televisions, waiting in line for snacks, and lounging in their private kitty condos (true story, by the way). There was only one kitten, and her name was Five. Five was a long-haired, tortoise shelled brat. Basically, I hated Five. So while I was sadly accepting the fact that I would leave sans kitten, I noticed that items from my purse were scattered on the cat room floor. A pack of gum, receipts, my wallet, the USB cord for my camera (what, you don’t keep yours in your purse?), and a pen. Then a curious black cat looked up at me, admitting to the mischief with a clear plastic mint wrapper under his paw. And so we met.

I left the pet center with one year old black cat on an orange leash. No tiger stripes, no heart spots, two green eyes. Just your standard issue black cat with a history of rough-housing a toddler and opening doors with handles. His name … was Wookie. So I changed this immediately and called him Rex. Rex is badass and wears a skull collar and plays fetch. He also has very bad manners and is certifiably crazy with an adorable baby panther/black bear face. And I do not blame his first family for returning him for knocking down their child. I also do not blame them for naming him Wookie, because, in their defense, he does communicate via Chubaka noises.

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