Dahhhlink, my head – she aches. My joints – they complain. I’ve spent the day lying down with feet up and eyes closed, offline and out of touch.

No one is happier than my trio of opinionated pussycats, in whose view my lying still is like happy birthday to them.

Lovely Drusy stares so hard at the finger puppet you’d think it would burst into flames.

Pete’s baking bread. We had long, busy days at the family stores, which is actually good. When we’re busy, time passes faster. It’s all a blur of festive tissue and wrapping paper and – POOF! – we’re home with our feet propped up while the bread machine whirs and squawks. The cats are curled up where they can touch us or at least keep watch: Topaz at my elbow, Drusy over my left shoulder and Sweetpea on an ottoman at our feet. They do not trust us. They dream of fishy treats and catnip mousies, but always sleep with one eye on us.

Our recent rescue kitten roaming the kitchen, after stumbling face first into the cat food bowl.

I am so tired I spent three hours this afternoon staring into space. That’s not like me. I usually get up and go do something the moment my train of thought derails. Who knows what tragedy might occur if I let it crash into the tiny Alpine village below?

Three weeks ago, Pete brought in a wee stray kitten covered with fleas and starving. The raucous fuzzball was so tiny he seemed to come to a point and we weren’t entirely sure he’d survive the night. He was a mess. He was smaller and younger than any cat I’d ever seen. Fortunately, Trout had some experience with wee stray kittens and took the little guy home, where he took up residence in her upstairs bathroom and exception to her shower routine. On Wednesday, Trout brought the still tiny but now healthy, vaccinated and totally well-adjusted kitty to the house, where new humans waited to take him home. He is curious, happy and fearless because Trout did wonderful work with him. This morning, the new humans sent me this picture of one tiny cat and one giant man. In the full-size picture, the nearly three-pound pussycat looks like a surly boutonniere.

This is a very good day.

A few years ago, Lupe visited Ikea and after that odyssey brought me a set of ten finger puppets. A king, queen, prince, princess, magician, knight and others.

A few weeks ago, we started finding bodies; some hostages are still missing. Obviously, a plot’s afoot.

Topaz, Drusy and Sweetpea aren’t talking.

Lovely Drusy. Every which way is up.

Tomorrow, cross your fingers: I want to make and jar tomatillo sauce. Last year, Pete and I made tart and refreshing tomatillo sauce as the basis for bloody mary mix, but we never made drinks with it. Instead, we tossed pasta in it, broiled fish with it and generally ran out of tomatillo sauce before we ran out of ingredients with which to combine it. Also: the last jar was better than the first, so we decided the sauce improved after about four months in the jar. Since we have no sauce on the shelf now, and if I jar tomorrow, by February, we will have outrageous green sauce, and I really, really want that. Really, really.

Drusy, actual size.

I have a story I’m not ready to tell.

The past two days have been an unbelievable shitstorm, but it’s almost over.

Locate your poncho. Brush off your boots. Don your goggles.

In a day or two, we’re gonna get messy.

Princess Drusy amid the candy and the flowers.

Many are her admirers.

We are sure she loves them all.

On Tuesday, I caught our friend Woym, stuffed him in a cat carrier, took him to the vet, got tests and shots and handed him off to a Woym-approved friend. Wednesday, we had a big windstorm here. A huge tree lost a giant branch onto a garage next door. Yesterday, one of the tenants heard crying and told Pete, who found a tiny kitten shivering under our back porch. Pete brought the tiny thing into the screen porch, fed the kitten and called me at the library, where my mind went blank.

Later, I kind of panicked, because I have zero experience with cats less than six months old. By the time I biked home, Pete had fed the kitten a mess o’ wet food, while the tenant scrunched up a soft blanket for warmth. The kitten was still squeaking at top volume, very obviously freaked out to be separated from Mama. The poor thing had a dirty face and watery eyes, but it was so frightened I didn’t dare approach. I stood at the other end of the porch and whispered, and for a little while, the kitten was quiet. Later, Pete picked up the kitten, who now snuggled into his hands, so I held it too. It fit in my hands. It nestled into my neck. My icy heart melted.

Sweetpea and friend.

I couldn’t help but notice the kitten’s resemblance to Sweetpea, who at this moment is the size of a Buick and asleep on my also sleeping leg. Pete and I did the math: two small black cats = one giant orange cat + one miniscule orange baby. For a day, we had achieved cat balance. Today, Trout met the kitten, who immediately curled up under her chin while Trout laughed and laughed. We’d gently washed grime and goo from the kitten’s face, but Trout knew immediately something we did not: the kitten was separated from Mama before Mama taught important things like bathing. Trout promised to teach the kitten cat-things. I mean, really. I didn’t finish high school. Tonight, the kitten has a bathroom to itself at Trout’s house while we find a good home.

Do you have one?

On Saturday nights, I now go to bed when I used to go out. For their parts, the cats seem pleased with this arrangement.