Well it has been a year. Exactly one year to date. And I am going to take a clue from my dear departed Aunt Edna, who as the story has been told, having "disappeared" for several years or so "modeling hands" in California, walked unannounced into her western Kentucky house one evening where she promptly started fixing dinner for her (still there) husband. Without a word. And nothing was ever said... by either... or hardly anyone else.
In Part 2, "The Continued Kitten Saga", where I owned up to my cat withdrawal crisis, I mentioned a charming and generous French woman who raises Scottish Fold and British Shorthair cats. Well, after she graciously invited us (monsters included) into her stone-walled hillside home complete with lovely pool overlooking a lavender and sunflower crossed valley outside of Aix-en-Provence, we dumped her and her 1,000 euro pure bred as the fresh driven snow kitten for a half-breed bastard from a shack in the Cevennes.
I did my best to rationalize this betrayal, as you just saw where I indirectly point out that the folks outside of Aix are hardly depending on the sale of a kitten to make ends meet and will most assuredly not miss the euros as much as we would have, had we succumbed to such a rash act of fiscal imprudence. But I had a problem convincing myself that I was not/am not an ungrateful, selfish, uncouth American.
This of course is not (a) George's fault. He deserves nothing but praise in this sordid history. As you can see, he immediately invested in his role as (a) George, and has continued to carry the (a) George tradition with great aplomb.
Starting out like this
Surviving all of this
And evolving into this
And I totally believe the story about Great Aunt Edna. I think she was vain about her hands to the very end.