Today is Paul's birthday, so his fond mother writes a paean to him and his cat. Mostly about the cat, as they are One.
Catullus is not the most beautiful cat in the world. She was the runt of the litter when she came to us from the shelter, very unhealthy, seriously underweight with a crooked back and monkey-like features that even a mother couldn't love (she may have looked at her kitten unawares, to paraphrase Jane Austen, when she took off for points unknown). Frankly, poor Catullus only got adopted because I ended up taking home the whole family of three. I remember thinking, "Well, that one isn't even a pretty kitten, but she's long-haired, so maybe she'll look better when she's full grown."
What was Virginia Woolf up to in 1930?
1 day ago