Then we went into a room that was filled with pure black kittens! I was playing with all of them, and one of them jumped in my lap, curled up, and fell asleep. So of course I knew which one I wanted. Fergus (then named Blatz after the beer) had an upper respiratory infection or something at the time, so I couldn't take him for two weeks. I couldn't stop crying when we left, because I knew I had to have him.
After I finally brought him home, he spent the next four years being a punk kitty. It wasn't until I met Tim that Fergus started settling down and becoming an adorably cuddly cat. Since the time we met at the shelter, he has never once sat in my lap. Which leads me to the conclusion that either he's a damn smart cat, and knew how to hook me (quite probable), or I got the wrong cat (also quite probable).
It was harder finding Olivia, because Tim and I had to agree on a cat together. We knew we wanted another blackie, but he wasn't drawn to any of the ones I was. I was becoming acquainted with a tabby while he was petting another on a kitty jungle gym. A little kitten above him was asleep. She woke up, walked over to him, and started licking his head. When he brought her down to me, she did the now-familiar kitty flop on my lap. So again (what is it with me?) I started crying because I wanted her so badly. The shelter workers had to confer in private, because she had a brother there and the workers weren't sure if the kittens should be broken up.
I don't feel too bad now about breaking up their family, because now she's part of ours. I like that both of our cats chose us instead of us choosing them.