I’ve always been a cat person. I got my first kitten as child. I named him Cinnamon. He became a big, fat ginger who was so mellow that he seemed perpetually stoned. I dressed him up in my doll clothes and bonnet, and wheeled him around in my baby carriage.

I have photographic proof of this and I’ve never had a cat since who would put up with such abuse.

When I was in college, I got a Siamese kitten that I named Tolstoy, so I could find an excuse to brag that I’d just finished reading “ War and Peace .” (I was in my Russian literature phase.) Tolstoy had the charming habit of jumping onto the top of the refrigerator, hiding until I came into the kitchen, and then leaping onto my back, digging in with his sharp claws. He enjoyed hearing me scream.

When I moved to Southern California

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