Woohoo, I'm having kittens - no, not really...

Let's face it, adopting two new pets is as sweet as licking the wrapper of a Cadbury's caramel bar - who, with their faces welling up with eager excitement as though Christmas morning had just arrived, could find the temptation to jump with delight at the thought of bringing furry friends into their loving home?

I, for one, cannot wait until that moment comes in all of its wonderful, joyous glory: for several weeks, my house has been free of a light pat-a-pat padding along the thin-as-Barbie's-waist carpet since the last of my two first cats, Jerry, flew into the fluffy clouds and was reunited with his singing sensation brother, Tom, who had waved his final goodbye back in March.

Slowly, my mind has adjusted to no longer hearing Jerry - a handsome, dark tabby moggy whose purrs, which certainly made up for his lack of meows (or squeaks, as they ought to have been titled), would send the house into a second-long shake whenever a curve of a satisfied smile lit up his oh-so-adorable face - leap off a bed and scramble down the stairs to be let out into the garden, where the sun would be hazily shining upon his gloriously silky-as-Galaxy-chocolate fur coat and he would soak up all of the pre-morning Vitamin D before hopping back indoors, awaiting his breakfast. Well, I'm not entirely convinced that he knew his socks (as if he could wear a pair, anyway; his claws were dangerously sharp, despite his efforts to not get stuck on the carpet) off in relation to Vitamin D, but Jerry was one smart cookie, whose loving and adoring nature cheered my family and I; how will I ever be able to forget the manner in which he would lie against my legs in the late evening, his ecstatic purrs making my feet shake?

Just like everybody else where misfortune has befallen them, losing a pet - or two, in my case, both of which within six, bitterly short months - can bring you down to your knees as heartbreak begins to break you and you have no other option than to face the five stages of grief ahead of you - 1. Denial, 2. Anger, 3. Bargaining, 4. Depression and 5. Acceptance - with a heaving, heavy heart.

When my model-like, golden tabby-furred 'brother', Tom, took his final journey on a cold March morning earlier this year, I experienced the five stages of grief far more strongly than I did to a certain extent with Jerry - if one is faced with bereavement for one of the first times, I guess that the feelings are pushed to a whole new level, which, in certain ways, can be perceived as utterly terrifying. Try to imagine taking a ride on a jam-packed motorway on a dark Saturday night (obviously, I would be breaking the law - a subject for which I'm ironically studying - because of my age): sweet, peaceful serenity wouldn't have a chance in calming your erratic nerves, would it?

As time passed and my mind started to re-adjust to the daily actions of Teenage Life (the literal meaning of this blog, remember!), I gradually reached the final stage of bereavement, acceptance, as no scientists had made an extraordinary discovering where one could travel back in time: just like picking up the awfully-difficult-to-comprehend French language, I learnt that there was no turning back, however much I strongly detested the events that had taken place. If it was meant to be, then nothing could be done about it. Despite my ever-growing desires to challenge her ways and sometimes unnecessary lessons, my voice was not loud enough to compete against Mother Nature: therefore, writing became more of a solace for myself and the perfect method of venting my frustration and sadness at waving 'au revoir' to my cuddly, singing soprano, Tom.

Yet when Jerry suddenly traveled to his rightful home - the one he was destined to share with his brother/partner-in-crime - I flew into a state of shock, mixed with a drop or two of despairing disbelief, because my mind - once again wrapped in a tight bubble, where I could neither understand nor feel anything - could not believe that I was going through the same ordeal within such a terribly short space of time. Was sadness set to become a familiar face again and again?

And so, reader, a beam has lit up my face as brightly as a Yankee candle - euphoria is set to re-enter home and bring two adorable, playful kittens into my family! In reality, it may have only been a mere, yet tiring month since the final packet of fish-flavoured Felix cat food wafted into the cool air, but October couldn't have dragged its heels for any longer; when 1st November dawned yesterday, a sense of relief flooded my body because I was offered the opportunity to turn over a new, albeit orange-tinted leaf and get prepared for the pending arrival of the kittens, whom my family have called Benny (a cat featured in 60s' classic, Top Cat) and Bart (no guesses there!).

Luckily, my family were granted our wish to meet the New Kits on the Block several weeks ago, as they were supposedly aged around six to seven weeks old. My heart poured with glorious glee as I patted Benny's tiny head with only two of my fingers; and I almost cried with joy as I caught sight of Bart taking a snooze whilst lying on his back!

As each day leads up to the eventual countdown of taking Benny and Bart home, my wild elation rises as rapidly as a loaf of bread whilst waiting for The Call which will confirm the date when everything will take a right turn. If only a pouch of patience could be added to my Christmas list...