I was making soup one morning when Alex came screaming into the house, in the nerve-shattering way that only Alex can do, “Tiny’s dead! Tiny’s dead!”
Tiny was the barn cat (kitten, actually) that my kids had found a few weeks earlier. It was way too young to be left alone, so they’d been feeding it and falling madly in love with it. And I’d been reminding them, daily, that we were not letting another cat into the house.
So there was Alex, standing in the middle of the kitchen, holding Tiny. He was dangling over her hand like overcooked spaghetti Continue reading
