You may recall that I've been taking care of some kittens. They are growing up quickly (don't they all?), and this week they took a trip to the vet (along with their mother). In another couple of weeks they will be ready for adoption. I would call that a hint, but frankly, I need to know the potential parents at least a little before I'll give them up. When we're living in a country where people can adopt cats from animal shelters to kill and dissect them, and still be elected to the US Senate and made Republican Majority Leader, it makes me distrust everyone a little more.

Anyway, I've been getting up at unholy hours because the four siblings are now living in a large cage on my front porch. Why, you might well ask, are they not roaming freely? I keep them in their spacious quarters during the hours I am not around for their own protection. There are dog-killing cats in my neighborhood, for one; for another, it is far too common for people to use my short residential street as a test lap for NASCAR time trials.

Today, for example, I was planning to relax and detox from the past few hellish work weeks. I thought I might get in some writing, do a little housework, that sort of thing. Unfortunately, when I went out I discovered that a neighborhood cat had been run down across the street from my house. It wasn't one of the regulars who wander through — I think his family recently moved in a few doors down, but I'm not certain. However, I was certain that I wouldn't want to find the body of a my pet lying by the side of the road, so I would have to take care of this before some child found it.

It's been dealt with; I'll spare you the details.

My weekend is pretty much dealt with, too.