Barely a year old, Mitty loves books. She jumps upon my bed every morning, rubs her cheeks on the edge of my journal and chews its ribbon glued to the binding. She paws my pen.
“Okay, Mitts, I get the message.”
I scratch her back from tail to head and hold her face in my hands. She closes her Siamese blue eyes and drools. I kiss her nose. “You’re beautiful.”
She flops onto her side for a tummy rub, then rolls over again. It’s what kittens do because they’re created with a playful genetic code.
If I have no early meeting, I’ll tease Mitty with moving my feet under the covers. I permit a few pounces and bites on my toes–otherwise Mitty loses interest and cleans her paws.
Lick. Lick. Lick.
If she’s not distracted by some exciting sound downstairs, Mitts may curl up at my side and nap while I read. I love when that happens.
Mitty’s sister, Cuddles, loves books too. She was the first to find my journal and me when my husband and I allowed upstairs privileges. She trained me well for Mitty’s visits.
Our two beloved and belated tomcats didn’t touch a book. P.J. and Mo never opened a paw and picked up my pen like Cuddles. Even Mitty doesn’t.
For some feline reason, Cuddles submitted her morning visits to Mitty months ago. Our tortoiseshell kitten prefers after dinner lap time to paw and chew the corner of my book in hand.
Cuddles is the gracious one of the pair. She’ll wait for Mitty to choose a bowl of yummy, stinky food before she consumes the other.
Of course there’s always an exception. When we replaced the chicken chair in the kitchen with the rocking chair from the basement, Cuddles claimed it. Never do we find Mitty on the rocker.
The girls take every chance to sneak into the guest room where they claw the chicken chair in revenge. One more door to keep closed. One more thing to remember.
The kittens can sense when my husband and I are preparing to leave the house. Cuddles hides under the guest bed with visions of clawing the chicken chair to shreds. Otherwise, she’s compliant. She doesn’t chase deer like Mitty, the adventurous sister.
Mitts follows me on farm inspections: fruit trees, hen house, beehive, vegetable garden, compost bin, flowerpots and window boxes, raspberry patch.
The kittens know our little place now. The place knows them. They know to meow at the sliding screen door and we will open it. Cuddles knows chipmunks inhabit the sandstone border surrounding my perennial island. The chipmunks know that Cuddles knows.
Dear Reader, today Cudds curled up for a nap in my laundry basket full of fresh and folded towels and sheets. I understand her attraction to the scent and softness of warm towels.
Well read, fed, and loved, that little creature has learned a few things about God’s wondrous grace.
Email Iris at