The tiny kitten we adopted two months ago has GROWN. No longer is she the scrawny little baby whose eyes had just opened, and whose back legs were too weak from malnutrition to walk straight. She’s become a lanky perpetually starving adolescent cat and is a far cry from the days where I had to squeeze drops of water in her mouth to keep her hydrated. I really wasn’t sure she’d survive the first night here, and in the morning had the sick dread that accompanied my childhood nightmares of waking up and finding a rescued baby bird dead on a dishtowel in a shoebox. But she was alive and screaming and hasn’t stopped.