Layla

We have a new baby. She is tiny and black with indistict splotches, has four velvet feet, and creeps like stealthy night itself. After several days of deliberation, Mattie decided to call her Layla. (I'm not sure if that's how she's spelling it.)

Mattie's been wanting a cat for a while now, and after a few sad incidents we decided to get a kitten instead of a grown up cat. Since she's hanging around (lurking is a better word)in our room, I am much happier with the kitten plan. We can get used to something a little smaller a little better. At least I can. Her helplessness appeals to me.

The poor little dear is, as they say in the old folk song, "a young thing, and she cannot leave her mother." Only she has left her mother, or rather been forced, at the tender age of 7 weeks. Consequently, she spent her first few days entertaining the dust bunnies under our bed. Now she comes out and stares with her big amber-brown eyes. She seems to want to play, but one glance from us is enough to send her scampering back to her refuge. The world is such a big, mean place after all. I kind of can relate.