Biscuits & Gravy
I love cats. If we know each other, even superficially, this statement is not surprising. Why, as I am penning this little tale, there is a large house panther named Olive sitting in my lap, impeding my view of the computer screen. Her arch nemesis, a lovely calico named Polly, is encroaching. Polly never wants lap time, unless, of course, Olive is already there. Phoebe, the baby of the bunch who the vet insists on referring to as Fibi, is snuggled into the bar stool next to me. Hazel, the old grandma cat, is napping on my bed alongside the big poodles. She genuinely thinks she is a dog and has taken to limping on constantly alternating paws for treats. And, as if that isn’t enough chaos for us, my husband’s office is a refuge for houseless or home-challenged neighborhood feral kittens. Right now, her name is Gypsy.