in which Moth seeks refuge

Poor, dear Moth - still feeling bereaved, and still sensing LucyFur's absence (she sniffs Lucy's favorite places, hopefully) - continues to have difficulty coping with a four and two-thirds month kitten.  To be sure, Gramsci is daily more mature - less given to jumping on her (or for that matter, on my laptop) incessantly.  But he wants to play; she doesn't.  Indeed, she thinks of him as a harrasser (she clearly remembers, with dislike and disdain and fear, her nemesis, the wonderful Walter Gomez).  So much of the time they spend apart - and even when apart, she looks for places of refuge.  Here she is in a basket in the dining room, oblivious of the fact that she's on top of our hoard of folding umbrellas.  We hope that rapprochement can slowly be achieved: I persist, in my Pollyanna-ish way, in thinking that Gramsci is fundamentally the sweetest little cat - just rather exuberant.