Kitten Therapy

It's pretty hard to feel unhappy when two kittens are attacking your ear. Or when they're cuddled up under your chin and purring.

In 1999, the night before the last in my first series of chemo treatments, I was lying in bed unable to sleep when I heard a persistent, faint crying outside my window. After trying to ignore it for almost two hours, I went outside and found two newborn kittens under the ivy.

The little mites were apparently born to a feral cat who disappeared. Their eyes were closed, placentas still attached. The kids and I spent the next few weeks bottle-feeding them on demand. Late-night feedings with kittens brought back all sorts of memories.

My father was a veterinarian, and when he did a Caesarian section on a dog or cat he would do the surgery in the evening and then bring the newborns home overnight, because the mother would still be groggy from the anesthesia. So my sisters and I would sit up all night, feeding the babies with eyedroppers and rubbing their tummies so they'd urinate. It's one of my happiest childhood memories, and one I was delighted to be able to repeat for Akira and Robin, my sons.

These cats, brothers, are now 8 years old, just the first of a number of homeless animals my kids and I have either fostered or added to the family.