There is a kitten in my knitting basket – temporarily. (Alas, kittens are always temporary as they eventually morph into cats, but that is probably just as well, as I am finding) The temporariness of the kitten is due to the fact that it is not my kitten, but is the kitten of my daughter, Sonja, and my son-in-law-to-be, Jordan (the famous Jordan of the Unfinished Christmas Socks, of course). They are living with us until the move into the house they recently bought – and the kitten is one of the furnishings.

The kitten is a functional furnishing as her purpose is to keep their 2-yr-old cat, Ferocious, company while they are at work. Ferocious has become accustomed to a lively household here with the constant in-and-out of various people and one cat-loving baby throughout the day, as well as the general company of the 4 resident cats.

I realize that knitters are accomplished (sometimes compulsive) counters, so I cannot hope that it has escaped the reader’s notice that I currently live with 6 cats.

But I had forgotten what it is like to have a kitten in the house. Certainly, she is sweet and fun to play with and lovely to hold (rather like a ball of angora with a spine and tiny claws). She also mews for attention endlessly, dashes under our feet, knocks the photos off the piano, and has upset the delicate balance of feline social structure in the house.

And she has discovered that I knit. At the ever-so-slight creak of leather as I settle into my chair in the evening, she wakes (and, I suspects, grins – though I have never yet caught her in the act), mews “Let the games begin!” then gallops across the living room and scrambles into my lap. The tiny claws come in handy there, as it is rather a climb for a kitten. While in my lap, she alternately chews on my yarn and battles the ends of the needles. I am going to suggest that she be named D’Artagnan for her swordsmanship – though perhaps The Highlander would better reflect her fighting style. She is not above biting the needles, too, in the heat of the fray.

Meanwhile, I scold her idiotically: No, kitten. Stop that. Don’t eat the yarn. Gracious, you know better than that. Get down. Stop that. Don’t bite the needles. Gracious, stop that. That is enough. And I call, uselessly, for assistance: Someone come get this kitten.

No one in my house is foolish enough to come fetch a kitten that is in full nuisance mode. So, I set her down on the floor – and she scrambles back into my lap and mews at the needles: En Garde! We do this a few more times, then I shut her up in a bedroom where she mews piteously. I return to my chair feeling like the villain in a Victor Hugo novel.

About then, Twist (our eldest cat) ambles slowly across the living room, sits at my feet and meows. With great effort (and my assistance) she climbs up onto my lap and then settles on the arm of the chair and purrs. It is time for her evening visit. After some petting and head rubs and such, she makes the final climb to the back of my chair where she will sleep for the rest of the evening. There is something to be said for the mature cat.