So, my cats. As many of you know, I fostered a family of four kittens and their mom for a few months last fall. They lived at first in my separate studio while making sure they were not infected with ringworm( they weren’t) before moving into my home. And move in, they did. Scrambling onto the computer, checking out the windows, the sofas, claiming spots, developing personalities. One liked to sleep on the upside down lap desk propped against my table; another slept with her sister head to foot. One liked to hide in boxes, and their mom sought refuge in spaces near the ceiling, atop the kitchen cabinets, or the transom of the window. They wriggled, purred, fought and cuddled their way into my heart. As they were adopted, my heart would give out a little. My sweet allergic niece decided she liked Izzy’s photo the best, and so I kept Izzy, and her mom.

 

I am still not sure how I wound up with the mom, but her name is Ocean. From five felines to two, my days spin around them. I wake at four, battling with Izzy who is busy tearing up the lining of my box spring. It is a task she looks forward to. We go back and forth for an hour and get up at a more respectable hour.

They have grown this past year, Ocean filling out, and Izzy as well. Now Izzy will be a year old, and my teen-mom Ocean might turn two Sunday.

 

 

 

 

 

It’s mostly about food, and napping, and sleeping.

There is also the adorableness factor.