“Raisin does not like Rosalind.” “One of the kittens pooped in the sink.” “I have found my vocation; my vocation is love.”
There is always a brief frisson when you step into a new shoe. The foam awaits your footprint. You will be this sole’s first mate. There are no pebbles in the treads. But let’s be honest with each other, as honest as a cat. There is no match for a holey old friend.
Everybody seems to be talking about it. Nobody can really explain it. Everyone knows exactly what it is. But, it’s kind of hard to explain love.
He thinks he is from France. We are not going to tell him he is from Connecticut. We are certainly not going to tell him this is New Jersey.
Never, ever, ever. Ever, ever, ever. Ever. Never. Ever. Ever. Now you know the point at which you are permitted to give up.
There are orange collared cats, and then there are orange frosted cats. There are final warnings, and then there are new beginnings.
Any one day has a way of being something different for all beings. For cats, such days can be wrapped in delicately smoked trout on crunchy crackers, or they can be whipped into a frenzy of furtive, furry activity.
Luck is fine, if your aspirations are modest. Luck may win the MegaMillions. But luck is far too little for a kitten.