Do you see what I'm up against?
What I'm tripping over as I step from kitchen to mudroom to the outdoors?
Do you see what cries to me while I'm making dinner, tiny little grey paws padding at the door, begging to come inside and toddle around my linoleum floor?
Piles of fluff and wisps of hair flopped together with milk-taugh tummies and tiny pink tongues, paws draped over each other.
Even my husband, not-so-fond-of-cats, has been caught cooing a word or two to them as he passes through.
They break you down, I tell you.