Sam has nicknamed Stella Tabby Whinette. Just writing it cracks me up. Cats meow. But were we somehow responsible for this almost unceasing and often annoying whine? Maybe it's a stage. Maybe we have spoiled the child. Maybe she was sent as a messenger of God to punish us for our wrongdoing.

On the train going into work there was a dad with his 4-year-old son. The boy had a tiny Transformer that you might get for a fifty cents in a bubble gum machine -– the kind of Transformer that transforms from a robot with his arms out to a robot with his arms down. He's completely involved in his play on the train. Paying absolutely no attention to the need to hold on as the train turns, slows down. When it does, his dad touches the boy's shoulder to steady him as the play continues. They make their way to where I'm standing. "Do you have a place to hold on to when the train stops?" The boy doesn't even look up; he grabs onto his father's pants leg.

Beautiful. His dad's pants leg was his protection. No thought, pure instinct. I was in awe. Funny, that when the dad and I started talking about kids and learning and stuff and not paying attention to him, the little boy started meowing. He went into his cat routine when he wanted attention. Imagine.

A cat's a cat and not a son or daughter. I am clear about that. I didn't bring the cat into the world, but I did bring her into our apartment and I believe we have a responsibility to her that goes beyond feeding and keeping her flea-free. I have to help her to be happy and feel safe. And keep her as neuroses-free as possible. As long as she's stuck in our 4.5-room apartment I feel responsible for her maintaining her catness. Goofy I guess. But, except for the occasional fly or ant, we're all else she's got. So, we hang out with her, play with her, leave her alone, tell her to get off of the counters. (She will on command about 75% of the time.) We try to let Stella be Stella and still maintain a few intact objets d'art.

Sure it would be nice if she were to become a public school teacher or an actor. But if she ends up being a happy cat that doesn't attack our ankles and wrists every evening in front of the TV and, maybe, cuts down on the meowing a little, that would be a good thing, too.