Kittens

Kittens is my favorite cat. Wherever Kittens is I want to be. If Kittens is hiding, I am mad because I have to find her. I work myself up into a frenzy. I look for her everywhere. But when I do find her it is a joyful encounter. She meows at me and I kiss her and say, Kittens, you are a bad kitty for hiding from me. And she comes and sleeps on my bed. Other days, however, I really can’t find her. I look under every bed and behind every curtain. And I get really upset and start drinking from the liquor cabinet. We are told never to go to the liquor cabinet but in this house everyone drinks so much that no one notices. Eventually, Kittens comes out of her hiding spot. By then I am usually a little bit tipsy. I was not hiding from you, I imagine Kittens saying. You just have nothing to offer me at the moment and I like to be alone. You are codependent and your love for me is tiring. I am just a cat after all, naturally domesticated, which you confuse as gratified desire. And I watch Kittens sadly as she sniffs around in her bowl, yawns, and then climbs up on my bed and falls asleep. Kittens is right. I cannot expect her to love me. I should be grateful only that she is alive. And if I want to love something passionately that does not love me back in any way I can recognize I can go to church.