The main occupation of the family these days is the arrival of a bedraggled kitten. When found, he was barely two weeks old. A neighbor boy found him in a ditch that is now likely haunted by the ghosts of his siblings. He brought the poor thing to us. It’s flattering that we’re known in the neighborhood as people who can take care of distraught animals, actually (and will).

Anyway, the veterinarian told us that he had only about a 50% chance of survival, particularly as he had an infection that could turn out to be viral. Warning our kids that it would be hard and that there was a good chance of failure after all we could do, we cared for him and named him Miles (after Miles Vorkosigan—who also wasn’t expected to survive a traumatic early childhood).

Caring for him meant feedings and medicine every two hours. Poor kitten. Teleri lead the effort (with Melissa’s help), but all the kids contributed. The good news is that he’s made it past the hard part. The better news is that a good friend who is allergic to most cats is just fine with Miles (after repeated testing. Or at least, that’s her excuse for asserting privileged access to Miles during our Saturday night games).

We should have remembered the propensity we have of giving names that foreshadow eventual behavior, however. Now that he’s healthy and discovered "exploring" and "playing", he’s become fearless. Indeed, we discovered him this morning at the top of the stairs, busy exploring the landing.