So just under a month ago, a stray cat had kittens...in my studio. We're very much a cat family, so we intend to do the right thing and spay Mama Cat and find loving homes for the six kittens when they're old enough. In the meantime, I have a litter box in the studio and half a dozen tiny furballs precariously underfoot. Against my own better judgment I named the little critters, so now I invariably have a vested interest in their well-being. In keeping with a family idiosyncrasy, a few of their names are a tad...offbeat. The two calicos are Hobbes and GeeGee, the pale calicos are Prince Albert and Stink Floyd, the lilac-point cream one is Squinty the Viking, and the black-and-white one is Mu...my favorite.
It's not terrible having them around; on the contrary, they're so bloody cute they can lift me out of almost any funk. However, as they get more curious I find spilled supplies, scattered cat litter, and two days ago I superglued myself to a table whilst doing an assemblage when Hobbes bit my toe unexpectedly. The task of finding suitable homes looms large and close, and my heart isn't quite ready for that. I debated the merits of posting about a non-art topic, but KITTENS. I repeat, KITTENS.