The kittens, oh lord. I don’t know how on earth I am resisting picking them up and squeezing them to death, but so far they are completely alive. I walk into the room, I sit on the floor, and one by one they (and by “they” I mean Delmar, Lem and Marion. Claudette still doesn’t want much to do with me.) approach me, they purr loudly, they sit against me, and sometimes if I’m not quick enough with the petting, they meow sadly up at me. And for at least ten minutes, I pet. And I pet. And I pet. And I rub bellies. And I kiss fuzzy little heads. Eventually their love banks are topped up, and they move away from me to play with toys or each other, or just roll around in the sun.
But they always come back for love.
These kittens = exactly what a cranky woman needs.
2007: No entry.
2006: No entry.
2005: Cleanliness is next to Sugarbuttliness.