We just had an explosion in the Brewster household. Fortunately we had a redundant containment system in place and damage was kept to a minimum. I had assembled the ingredients of the eventual bomb myself but had been led to believe they were not especially volatile. Plus I was not thinking clearly.

According to instructions, the contents of the device housing could be released more gradually. In fact the device came with the caveat that it might fizzle altogether. Expectations were low. Instead, the sucker totally detonated all over our laundry room.

The bomb ingredients are named Wally and Clifford. And they blasted out of the crate and bounced all over the place. I sat down far away from the container and they hopped right over to me and commenced climbing.

I had been thinking about such an eventuality in a very unserious way, more curious than motivated. I have occasionally, and only casually, flipped through the online offerings at the local animal shelters in case a tortoiseshell kitty shows up. Call me torty-curious and shelter-adjacent. Last week there were three tortoiseshells on offer, all siblings. I thought: I don’t need a kitty, but I could at least have a look. No harm looking. Their names were Janis, Joni, and Aretha. I sensed a theme.

I mentioned it to a friend and she said “Oh, you should get all three!” whereupon I politely inquired if she was insane. Nevertheless, it planted the idea that two might not be so horrible, especially since they might entertain each other while I got work done. It didn’t seem nearly as nuts as three. Mind you, I have now made the emotional transition from No Kitties to a Pretend Kitty to two kitties. In one day.

Aretha was gorgeous. Janis was pretty dang cute. Joni was weird-looking, but she was the only one who wanted to be picked up. So did her brother, Dylan. (See Theme.) Dylan was a black kitty. The only cats we’ve ever had were a tortoiseshell and a black. Those were spectacular cats. Having a tort-case and a black right in my hands seemed like a sign from the gods.

I don’t believe in signs. Or gods.

Kitties, though.

The best part was they were “pre-select.” That’s what the shelter calls animals that aren’t adoptable yet because they might be claimed by an owner. “Pre-select” just means “I got dibbies.” And if they weren’t given the green light for two more weeks, well, that gave me some time to come to my senses. So guardrails were in place, and I could fill out an application without much obligation. Although I was hard put to imagine that they had come by a whole litter of four kittens that someone had just lost. No matter: they were only potential kitties. Nothing was in ink.

Then I was to see a counselor. And ink things. And she said “You know what we mean by ‘pre-select,’ right?” And I said I did. They’re not available, and they might be available in a week or two but no guarantees. And then she tapped her papers and said “But you can take them home today.” I what-now? That wasn’t in my plan at all. My plan was to look at torties and possibly come home with one but probably not. This was all happening too fast.

But not as fast as the Wally and Clifford explosion. They’re eight weeks old. My sainted cat Larry, at 11 weeks, was in the tubular stage. These guys are pre-tubular. You could plate them each up on a ping pong paddle and have a nice margin all around. They’re fuzzy little packets of enriched uranium. Or something. And they already have different personalities.

Clifford is the one who isn’t into chewing all the electrical cords. Wally is the one that doesn’t fart.

According to the counselor, I was to keep them in one room until they felt secure, maybe for three days, then gradually open up their space as their tiny little personalities allowed. That lasted fifteen minutes. I opened it up to the next room the first night—the one I sit in. They were fine. I blocked off the studio. Five minutes later Wally figured out how to vault into the studio by climbing on my head. Then I had to kitty-proof the studio. Easily done because they can’t jump on counters yet, but soon enough I’ll have to really muck out. The lower 32 inches of our home are as tidy as they’ve ever been. Upper latitudes will have to wait a few weeks. And I’m not opening any more of the containment systems yet. Wally and Clifford would be fine, but I need to do a projected damage assessment first. What was I thinking? I have adult furniture now.

These little guys are pretty cool already. But they’re trouble.

Good trouble.