I don't care so much for kittens. I told this to the teenage girl who works in the shop where Wolfman teaches guitar, she of lilty, whispy, indie songs on open mic night. This was back when Wolfman had just brought Xena home, and she still fit in the palm of his hand, and he didn't want to leave her alone in the house so would bring her with him to work. Lilty, whispy teenage girl had asked me, "So, how are you liking the kitten?," or something like. And I answered in my typically honest, socially inept way, "Well, I don't," or something like. Poor teenage girl looked at me as if I were some sort of monster, and I was quick to add the disclaimer, "I mean, I like cats okay, so I kind of can't wait for her to be an adult cat already," but it was too late for me. I could not redeem myself after admitting to not liking kittens. And, as it turns out, joke is on me because Xena and her sister Birgitte (who we brought home at my insistence [I had a moment of weakness akin to seeing a too expensive silk scarf while "window shopping" and buying it, followed by instant regret]) are never growing up, it seems. They will never be adult cats. They will never get big. Heather, whose wild outdoor cats are mother and siblings to our kittens, insists that all the other kittens are normal-sized now. But not our little runts.
The point, however, is that though I sometimes want to punt these little carpet sharks (as I've not so affectionately termed them), my husband sure does love them. And I sure do love him. (And look at those eyelashes! What a gorgeous hunk of man!) And, there's always our handsome boy, Lunchbox. I do love that dog. Best and handsomest dog ever.