Kitten was in a strange mind-set last night. She usually wants to play the moment I sit down in the living room, which she signals by dropping a fuzzy mouse toy into my lap or down my back. That's her cue that she wants to play fetch, a game that can keep her attention for hours. Yesterday evening however she brought her fuzzy mouse over, dropped it in my lap, and then curled up around it. She then proceeded to drop off to sleep for the next hour. I was all tucked in under a quilt on the sofa, and pulled a corner of the quilt over her. She never even noticed. We stayed that way all through "Leave it to Beaver" and "The Andy Griffith Show". No comments from the Peanut Gallery about my taste in television; at least it wasn't more war news.
Now, it would be an absolute mistake to think I have an atom of maternal instinct in me. I never wanted to have children and I do poorly in one-on-one exchanges involving most humanoids under the age of fifteen or so. The Kitten definitely has many of the lesser-desired qualities of childhood in its repertoire. Considering my history, I should be considering Fricassee de Petit Chat most evenings for dinner. But holding that sleeping kitten last night was perhaps one of the most peaceful feelings I've ever known. Finding all the good scritch spots - under the chin, behind the ears, over the shoulder blades, where the backbone meets the tail - and feeling her lean into my attentions without really waking up was a like balm on my psyche. For an hour, nothing existed except the kitten and me, and life had no problems.
Maybe life really doesn't have any problems that can't be fixed by the love of a good Kitten.
