Bailey, our nine-month-old kitten, conked out on the couch. I want to live a cat's life. Not the life of the mangy street cats who patrol our garden, rolling in valerian root, hiding behind grapevines and using fresh-turned earth as a personal litter box.
I want the life of our lovingly pampered indoor companions, who take long winter's naps before raging wood fires and lounge in quiet abandon in sun pools beside screened windows all summer.
The contented peace evident in posture and expression is to be envied.
I'm guessing, though, if you asked them, they'd rather roll in valerian root.
I want the life of our lovingly pampered indoor companions, who take long winter's naps before raging wood fires and lounge in quiet abandon in sun pools beside screened windows all summer.
The contented peace evident in posture and expression is to be envied.
I'm guessing, though, if you asked them, they'd rather roll in valerian root.
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