More blathering about cats and flowers

Since there's no news this month from Ladyland, post-op, and I'm all out of deep thoughts at the moment, I'm going to babble more about my cats.

The newcomers basically demonstrated that they were determined to roam the house at large, and we let them, with no major problems. Mr. Pepys, named for the eminent man of letters, was less than delighted, but not too hard on the new fellows. He seems slightly out of sorts, so I'm trying to give him an extra dose of love (and special treats). Bilbo (shelter name that seems to stick like glue), the little black kitty with the funky tail, is kicking everyone's ass, simply by walking around and not giving a damn. Jack (also shelter name, also sticky) has found his courage and is happily climbing into windows and attempting to gnaw on house plants. Spitting and hissing comes at regular, but infrequent intervals, as the men sort out who's who. But overall, a very peaceful transition to what we hope will be a merry sausage fest. I'm proud of our Mr. Pepys, who has shown his excellent kitty quality by being what in feline terms seems to be an incredibly gracious host.

I'll post pictures soon.

Outside, I noticed the first crocus in bloom yesterday afternoon. Just now, I walked through the yard, barefoot on the cold, damp grass, and saw that they were everywhere, the flowers of my labor. Their tiny white, cream, yellow and purple blossoms are so perfectly proportioned and shaped. They're not showy, but such tiny shouts of spring that I almost broke into tears when I found a particularly pretty cluster near the air conditioner. Hope, I found myself thinking, hope has come. Nature makes it so plain: Things begin to burst forth from their silent sleep, and there's nothing you can do to stop it.