I often wonder what takes place in my apartment when I’m not there. Today I came home to discover every rug crumpled, a pile of cat toys lined up on the welcome mat, candles on the bedspread, and baby kitty Grace herself sprawled, limbs akimbo, in the bathtub. Is Little Miss hitting the catnip too hard? Has she scored a dealer of her own? Do her pals enter via the fire escape and hold under-age, inter-species parties? Has she, G-d forbid, fallen in with the wrong crowd? Inquiring cat ladies want to know.
Sunrise coffee on my fire escape: the gentlest of breezes ruffling my feathers, the rosiest of light pinking up my plans. Even timid Grace steals by my side to inspect the splendor and mischief outside our window. I’m smiling, still living inside this sculpture I saw on Monday at The Metropolitan Museum of Art. Such a sweet embrace.
Two ways my cat is very much like a dog: 1. She will eat any leftover I offer her, whether it’s sweet potato or broccoli or fish skin. Though a dainty little creature, she doubles as a living trash compactor, and the thrifty Jew-Scotswoman in me appreciates this quality more than I can say. 2. To indicate her pleasure, she wags her tail. When she’s especially happy, she thumps her tail emphatically on the carpet. In sum, baby kitty Grace is neither cat nor dog. She is my darling cog.
I often wonder what takes place in my apartment when I’m not there. Today I came home to discover every rug crumpled, a pile of cat toys lined up on the welcome mat, candles on the bedspread, and baby kitty Grace herself sprawled, limbs akimbo, in the bathtub. Is Little Miss hitting the catnip too hard? Has she scored a dealer of her own? Do her pals enter via the fire escape and hold under-age, inter-species parties? Has she, G-d forbid, fallen in with the wrong crowd? Inquiring cat ladies want to know.
Sunrise coffee on my fire escape: the gentlest of breezes ruffling my feathers, the rosiest of light pinking up my plans. Even timid Grace steals by my side to inspect the splendor and mischief outside our window. I’m smiling, still living inside this sculpture I saw on Monday at The Metropolitan Museum of Art. Such a sweet embrace.
Two ways my cat is very much like a dog: 1. She will eat any leftover I offer her, whether it’s sweet potato or broccoli or fish skin. Though a dainty little creature, she doubles as a living trash compactor, and the thrifty Jew-Scotswoman in me appreciates this quality more than I can say. 2. To indicate her pleasure, she wags her tail. When she’s especially happy, she thumps her tail emphatically on the carpet. In sum, baby kitty Grace is neither cat nor dog. She is my darling cog.