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This morning began as a full-on kitty ambush. Whiskey launched herself into attack mode like a tiny furry chainsaw, biting, clawing, gnawing, and turning my forearms into something resembling minced meat. There was no snooze button negotiation. Some days you simply cannot oversleep with a kitten, no matter how convincing your pillow tries to be. Eventually, through scratches and surrender, I got her fed, which is really what all of this was about anyway. Kitty law is simple: feed first, apologize later. After the dust settled and my arms stopped stinging, my brother Mike came by to visit Mom. Mike...

Whiskey woke me up again this morning bouncing and playing all over the bed like gravity was optional and the mattress was a trampoline. At one point, she nearly crawled into the toilet in the bathroom. That was a heart-stopper. One distracted second and she could have drowned. Luckily, curiosity blinked first and she backed away, offended by plumbing. She didn’t want to go downstairs to play. Instead, she declared the upstairs her personal racetrack and turned the morning into a full game of catch me if you can. I chased, she zigzagged, and eventually we called a truce. I...

As you can probably guess by now, Whiskey woke me up. Not gently. Not politely. This was the full kitten alarm clock experience: jumping around, biting me, and initiating games on the side of the bed like a caffeinated ninja. I tried to play along by catching her, but instead I caught her little teeny arm. That can hurt a little kitty, and the last thing I want is to be that guy, so I immediately aborted the mission, got out of bed, made sure she was fed, and took her downstairs to run around for a while. That took...

This morning I woke up to Whiskey Kitty’s mouth right next to mine, delivering love and kisses like a tiny, furry alarm clock. Then came the claws. Sharp ones. Straight into my skin. They hurt. Clearly, it’s time for a nail trim before affection turns into a crime scene. As if that weren’t enough feline drama for one morning, mom’s cat Herbie managed to trip her on her bowl. She’s 87 years old, and getting up wasn’t easy. That shook me a bit. Thankfully, after the chaos, Herbie came over and gave her some love too, like a fuzzy apology...

I woke up this morning to Whiskey Kitty bouncing around the bed like a tiny trampoline with fur, delivering kisses, love, and that unmistakable kitten enthusiasm for the dawn. For a few minutes, life was pure purr and chaos. Then the joy dimmed as reality crept in. Legal problems have a way of doing that. I lay there thinking about what could happen if things don’t go right, and how fragile the next few weeks feel. I made a decision not to spiral. I’ll wait until Tuesday and contact my public defender. No catastrophizing before breakfast. Instead, I fed Whiskey...