The new kitten's name is Edison Carter (broadcasting live and direct), because I cannot resist a Max Headroom reference and also because now my cats are named Edison and Tesla. Edison is two months old, which means that he fits in the palm of my hand. Let it be known that I did not choose this cat. I just stood in the his little kitten condo and he introduced himself to me running up my arm, perching on my shoulder, and licking my neck.
Eddy's foster notes say, "He loves everybody!" So far, this appears to be true. Within 24 hours, my tiny new kitten and my 8 month-old behemoth (seriously, he is 13 lbs) were rolling around on the floor together and trying to eat each other's faces off. By the third day, I woke up to discover that I was spooning the big cat, who was spooning the little cat. We have achieved domestic bliss.
So while Twitter is a hellmouth, spewing forth fresh horrors from the Trump administration, and I spend all of my time trying to work out what people should do with their devices at borders and at protests, at least I can come home and kittens (large and small) will run up to me and lick my face. I'm not about to tell you that everything is going to be okay, but at least I can tell you that oxytocin is the drug that's going to get me through the next four years.
