Charlotte Blaine Everton

Call it stereotypical if you will, but I live with cats.

We had no pets when I was a child, only working animals--guard dogs, hunting dogs, near wild cats who kept down rodents. It wasn't until I had a flat of my own in London that I had anything resembling a pet. Stanley is a force of his own making, however. My responsibility was to rescue his sorry kitten ass and get him through his first year. The instant he was big enough to routinely scale the staggered balconies in my building, he was gone. At least I had the good sense to fix him or I'd have faced some municipal fine and the enduring hatred of my neighbors.

Almost immediately upon deciding to make a second home in the States, I was presented with the opportunity to host unique kittens. The little monsters darlings are perfectly normal in every respect except that they can teleport. They pop in and out of rooms, appear underfoot, much like any other cat. Don't ask me how they do it, they just do. I'm getting used to it, slowly.

Blind. Hands down.

I could, if I had to, develop a kind of sonar. I think. At least for those things near me. I could get around a room, get around on the street, generally make my way. I'd have no way to compensate for losing my hearing.

I'm surprised how easy the choice is, how practical.