10.09.02
I've got a new hobby which is keeping me very occupied. His name is Mr. Peepers, and he's going to die.
Eventually.
The poor little creature is a kitten that has basically been abandoned by its mother after a week of existence. He is completely failing to thrive, despite being nursemaided by Celeste, groomed by Chase, and fed formula by whomever can work some down his throat.
Celeste's kittens are easily five times his size, and they're only a week older -- fluffy puffballs of darkness, all cloudy blue eyes and baby chub.
Mr. Peepers spends his taut, bony, listless little days curled up among them, feeding from their mother, absorbing their warmth and love.
The way I look at it is that if he has to die an untimely demise, he might as well die warm and loved and with as full a tummy as we can give him.
Most certainly, I am growing attached.
It's hard to not love something a little, when it is something tiny and warm that sleeps in the crook of your arm at night, or curled up on your chest, gently peeping with the rhythm of your breathing.
What's in your head?