I have (and have had) many pets since I was a wee girl- newts, bunnies, terriers, gerbils, frogs, iguanas, fish, hedgehogs, and I’ve loved each of them with all I’ve got. But over the last few years, I’ve found my truest passion is raising kittens (don’t tell my dogs, who seem 100% sure the cats are just disruptive indignities I must suffer to get back to them.) Kittens are nature’s anti-depressant, the best reality show you’re not watching and a totally inspiring example of the mindfuck that is evolution. I mean, these little creeps have been designed by a Higher Power to look adorably lost, impossibly needy… and then BAM they’re opening all your doors and eating all your salad and looking down at you from the bookshelf like you’re the help in a Downton Abbey sequel. Plus, on a soppy note, a teensy rescue kitten is the example of tenacity we all need- they don’t give up as they go from fetal bird confusion to diabolical emperor. Any opportunity to foster, raise and/or unleash kittens on their next willing fin-dom arrangement is one of my higher callings. At the moment, two young ‘ens are staring at me from a cactus shaped condo in the corner of our bedroom. Another eight year old adoptee/Garfield doppelganger is on a reduced calorie diet upstairs so that he can maintain his heart health and travel in something smaller than the laundry hamper. Look at us! We’re a chic literary salon but I’m the only one who can read (I think. I have one cat who can probably read, she just does it at night when I’m not looking.)
