My writing has been heavy lately, as I brood about the state of the world — bigotry and prejudice, hatred, banal acts of evil, etc.
It’s time to talk about kittens again.
My husband needs to publish his first book. In this book, Augustus T. Cat helps his friend Mr. Snail realize his goal to run a marathon.

Exhibit 1. It is suggested you enlarge this, so you can see the utter adorableness that is the kitten Keanu.

Exhibit 2: This cat got her own award-winning documentary: Review: Lil Bub and Friendz (Full disclosure: this is not my cat. However, I have met her and I can attest to the fact that she has an unworldly aura about her that might prove that she’s an alien space cat come to Earth to save the world one cat fan at a time.)

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In one of my novels, a kitten with Cerebellar Hypoplasia teaches a life lesson to the protagonist* :

Meeting Jeanne and her father at the top of the stairs, the ginger and white kitten walked with a peculiar stiff-legged and wobbly gait, weaving and occasionally tipping over.

“Isn’t he cute?” Dad asked Jeanne, following her into the oppressively floral nieces’ room.  The wobbly kitten followed them.

“He’s drunk, Dad,” Jeanne commented as the kitten attacked her hand and then unceremoniously fell over. Undaunted, the kitten shifted itself under her hand and gnawed on her fingers. Jeanne pulled her hand back. “Ow! Not too hard, kitten!” The little creature stopped in mid-chomp and began to lick her finger while grabbing it with two little paws.

“He’s not drunk. Poor little guy has something called cerebellar hypoplasia. It means his motor skills aren’t very good, but he’s otherwise very healthy and happy. I named him Weebles.”“Because he wobbles and doesn’t fall down, right?” 

Jeanne recalled a television commercial from her childhood. “But he does fall down.” 

Weebles demonstrated by running three steps forward and tipping over, then cleaning himself as if he meant to fall over. “He gets right back up, though, and that’s the important thing.”

“Dad, he’s not getting up. He’s now fighting with an invisible feather. Is this kitten not very bright or something?” Jeanne looked at her father with consternation. “Dad, you’re what? Seventy-eight?”

“Yes. Why?” Jeanne should have been warned off by the questioning tone of her father’s voice.

“This kitten is – it’s a kitten. And you and mom could go into assisted living or even a nursing home at any time. What’s going to happen to Weebles here if you go into a nursing home?”

“Daughter.” Jeanne heard the steel in her father’s voice, as effective as another man’s shouting. “If I had not adopted this kitten, it would be dead by now. You can’t expect your mother and I to live our lives as if we might check out tomorrow. If we go into a home and they don’t allow us our pet, we will find someone to care for this kitten.  It might even be you for all I know; you need something in your life to give you a sense of perspective. You can’t expect us to sit around and wait to die; life goes on and none of us know how much time we have left so we might as well love little kittens.” 

 Dad stood up slowly from the twin bed where he had been sitting and walked out of the room. Weebles stumbled up to her hand, stood still, and tipped over, purring.

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If you want to know what Weebles looks like, here is my new kitten Charlie, who does not have Cerebellar Hypoplasia, but otherwise bears an uncanny resemblance (the cat, not my husband):

*In a way, I cringe at including my writing in the same essay as Lil
Bub and Keanu. I feel like I’ve just said, “And look! My example is just as magificent as this Tribeca Film Festival winner!’ Oh, well.