The Bobbsey Cats

I haven’t slept past 3:30 AM in weeks. DH has been in Baltimore. The skies are dark and dreary and windy, and though it’s only 25° F the “frost-free” hydrant at the barn has frozen solid. Tackling my usual list of work suddenly seems hopeless. I’m tired and discouraged.

In the midst of this disgusting wallow in self-pity it is lovely to go into the tack room and have the barn kittens leap to me in happiness. Freddie is the more intrepid and climbs up my Carhartt coveralls as if I’m a tree, to land in my arms and turn upside down for a belly rub. I scoop up Flossie and the two roll and purr in ecstasy. I sit on the grain bin or on the five-gallon pail of sheep minerals and knead their plush fur, while their throats rumble like tiny outboard motors. They arch their backs under my hands and rub their blunt heads in my collar. You’re here! Joy, joy, joy!

You really can’t stay blue around kittens.


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