ONE SORRY TABBY
SEATTLE, Washington: My hand puffs more each hour. I type gingerly with six fingers: my right hand rattling away, punctuated with a painful stab of my left thumb. Work sludges along.
Jake remains miserable. He clings, curling in my lap as I write, both paws clasped around my wrist. This position is his kitten-equivalent of thumbsucking, only assumed in moments of high stress (after I rescued him from the shelter, for example, or following a six-week trip).
Naturally, he holds my healthy hand, thereby hindering progress further. But I don't have the heart to pry him loose.