When I came home that empty Christmas morn…hadda break down the door – okay I kicked the lockplate in – and found out the Siamese I had brought through feline distemper (still feel the snarls and scratches on the “hold arm” as I massaged the huge horse-size pill down her throat) had littered on my Kaneohe-rescued camouflaged blanke-covered childhood bed. The kittens were with Mom Skeeter when I clumb aboard that magic dreamship after saying howdy of course and set off the start shivvering for the very first time since that night on December 10’s monsoonrainy morning. Skeet left the cut-in-strips newspaper filled box and came over to pat me on one cheek and the check out the nifty half-head bandaging before she gave me a peering look-see. She hopped down and one-by-one introduced me to her bood. The last looked like her spittin’ image and that young’un with eyes probbly open but a week or so patted my chin and promptle curled up on m chest and we both went to sleep. I guess her mom had other things to do. When I crawled back up there Skeeter Two (Too?) still curled but her tail twitches and thumps in diastolic time. I know how and why, my friend. Thanks for both of ’em.