Update 1: Nine lives is too many

A few months ago, a skeletal mommy-kitten appeared, suddenly, outside our back door. I'd been in the middle of saying something to Luther and Wil, and I saw her through the glass. She stood, alarmed and ready to bolt, on the big, orange, riding lawn mower parked outside the door, black kitty on black plastic seat. She couldn't decide between hissing and meowing, so she did both, a sadly comical mix of fright and hunger.

There wasn't any stopping me. I guess there never is. I slid the door open a little. I called to her and held my fingers out. She approached, she hissed, she meowed, she hissed. And I reached over her and closed my fingers on the skin behind her head and pulled her inside.

I was so angry about that cat. The more she adored me, the more angry I became. We are not having a pet. We're going to travel the world and live on a sailboat and not know and not care where we'll stop for the night, and we are not going to stop and say, "oh, we can't go away for the weekend. Who will take care of the cat?"

Do you remember George Bailey in It's a Wonderful Life? He told Mary he didn't want to get married. He was so angry, because he was already trapped. Just like me with the cat.

Sometimes I feel quite trapped by my job, by this town, by a promise I've made and some others' goals that I want and need to support. So when the cat gets up onto my lap and curls up and purrs, I give her a dirty look and think nasty thoughts. You're on notice, cat. The minute we're free to go, we are outta here, and no cute, purring, clever, drinking-water-from-her-paw "Simplicity Simone" cat is going to get in our way.