Miss Kitty. I miss kitty.

Sugar and spice, and everything - "Wait, she's a kitten..." you say. You, the critic in my imagination, chide me for feeling such a strong, almost chaotic emotional attachment to a cat. You wag an invisible finger at me, as I dream of holding the kitty mid-class. A student stands in front of me, asking a question. Inevitably, there is something I have left unclear, as I half-heartedly explained an upcoming assignment, while fantasizing about tormenting soft, pink feet of kitten. As the student finishes up her inane and uninteresting query, I respond with a blank expression, and issue, what must be to her, a frustrating and irritated, "Huh?". I have been dreaming of the kitty again.

The reality of the kitty is far less endearing than the image I create of her. The kitten is not the sweet, purring little ball of fur and joy she once was. The kitty is mean. (At least a vast majority of the time). For every minute the kitty spends nuzzling my face with her now smelly, adolescent cat-ten body, there are ten she spends mauling my arms and legs, slapping my face with her claws, and gnashing my jugular with her vampiress fangs. Her purr has actually become an early detection system, a warning that allows us the draw our hands frantically beneath blankets or into long sleeves, like villagers narrowly escaping a fierce plague. Our legs snap to attention and are thrown akimbo and involuntarily away from the impending, throaty siren. Fear is visible in the dog's posture, as kitty enters the room. He follows her with dark eyes only, careful not to move, because nothing incites kitty's wrath more than subtle movement (for example, breathing).

The hours known as "night" are not good ones for the kitty. First of all, the kitty is not much for sleep, as you might imagine of a beast dedicated mostly to maiming unsuspecting victims. Any time that it is not the all too rare moments that kitty might be snuggled up dreaming beside me, she is prancing, claws fully extended, carrying out her guerilla wartime march across our sleeping-then-startled faces. Her triumph at my cry of displeasure is displayed with a show of further violence. Somehow her claws seem to distend from her body, functioning like tiny needle-tipped salad tongs, clutching my cheeks (left defenseless, as I sleep with my hands wrapped in bed-sheets, mummy-style, as pre-emptive security). When I am fully in her grasp, her most potent weapons emerge. You would imagine that kitten-teeth would be harmless, used only to barely aid in gumming down kitten-chow. But, you, my imaginary friend, would be wrong. Each of her teeth is like a tiny ice-pick, lance, or chisel, depending upon its position in her mouth, which seems to have become remarkably large. I have now snapped to full wakefulness, and find myself to be wearing what appears to be an excruciating kitten-mask, made almost entirely of tooth-and-nail, any remnant of her soft fur nowhere to be felt, or seen (as in fact I am seeing nothing but thrashing and my own terror). Inevitably, at this point, I cry out, and wake Bill who jerks into an immediate frenzy. I swing my face upward, which naturally flings the kitty, still in predator-mode, crashing into Bill's somehow exposed legs. I begin to silently chide him for leaving his legs open to the air (is he not yet aware of the inherent danger?). But, before I have a chance to sigh heavily, he has cupped the small kitty in his large, flat foot and catapulted her, not only off the bed, but out the door. She huffs, depressed off to her room, not to return for three-and-a-half minutes.

Another strange practice that belongs to this kitten is intense and prolonged periods of lounging. Between episodes, she can be found stretched out, sultaness-style, across our impeccably-made bed. This is fairly typical kitten behavior, I am led to believe. However, I need only add a specific stuffed animal to create a ritual that can only be described as bizarre. This stuffed animal is a winter bear, its soft fur found poking out from my stocking this past Christmas. The kitty, I noticed, took a particular and immediate liking to this plush toy. This made me happy, as I assumed his soft and fur-like coat must have reminded her of times past, happy times spent with her birth mother, brothers and sisters. I certainly would never begrudge the kitten any healthy reminiscing. However, "healthy" may be not quite the right word. The kitty soon began kneading her precious winter bear, tiny paws alternating between balled fists and fully-extended claws (immediately causing her current family to shrink with fear). The odd process of mashing the bear soon was augmented by a ravenous suckling. Yes, imaginary you, the kitten spends literally hours, sucking and licking the fur or the winter bear. By the time the dog moves profoundly enough to incite a full-fledged attack, the bear is drenched with kitten slobber, fur matted together by her gluey saliva. If nothing else, the kitten is uncouth.

All this, in addition to typical kitten behavior, such as adorably batting the dog's eyes, ripping frantically at my dried flowers and daily scattering trash and potpourri throughout the house. And yet, somehow, those small moments of tolerable behavior, along with the very spare times of sweetness and bonding, allow us to endure the majority of her life, spent orchestrating our painful demise.