Why Lint Rollers Were Invented.

My morning trio, without fail, starting every one of my days.

When the alarm goes off, it's like there's a weight on me. And next to me. And pinning down my arm. Jeff's usually been exiled to a small sliver of the bed (I like to remind him that I get a quarter, three kittens get half, and he gets the remaining quarter, but he doesn't follow the logic). And somehow, in spite of how desperately I need to go to the bathroom / shut off the alarm / get a drink of water, I just can't bear to ask the gently purring creatures that surround me to move. And so we lie there for several more minutes, eyes closed, occasional patting happening, and it's absolute bliss.

Rosie and Guillie, cuddled together,
just as they've been for nearly 13 years--since the first night I brought them home.

Jeff and I always both thought we were "dog people," so there's something very humiliating about actually admitting that we've transitioned into "cat people." We used to try to hide it with the typical excuses: "It's so much easier to leave home on a whim with cats," or "It's great not to have to take 5AM walks in the snow!", or "Vet bills are much less expensive for cats than for dogs, you know." But the truth of the matter is that, no matter how often we promised ourselves those things were true, the real truth was that we were falling in love with our little furbabies more and more every day.

Ozzy's two favorite places to be:
Securely on Jeff's back or shoulders (above)
Nestled between his feet as he cooks in the kitchen (below)

And our three little ones, in return, have a remarkable ability to turn "non-cat people" into cooing balls of goo that can't help but reach out and scratch a belly. Even our next-door neighbor, J, who himself is highly allergic to cats, seems inexplicably incapable of walking through our living room (on his way to our cat-free back deck) without reaching out to ruffle up Ozzy's mane as he sits, perched atop Jeff's shoulders like a little parrot. At the vet, Guillie snuggles right up to the tech, even as she's swept away for shots and medication, and Rosie's uncanny ability to locate and infiltrate the warmest lap in the room always earns her a long waitlist of friends who volunteer to serve as her pre-heated furniture.

Jeff swears my co-sleeping with Rosie is a normal occurrence,
which I can no longer deny in the face of photographic evidence.

So, yes, there are vet bills. And scratched-up furniture. And economy-sized lint rollers in every bedroom. But I wouldn't trade any of those things for the unconditional love that our three little ones show us on a daily basis, and even more in a time of grief. They just seem to sense what we need and, just like any family member would do, they provide whatever they can in the way of comfort. The sound of a little purring motorboat (or three) does far more good than most cures I know for broken hearts.