Soon enough, I spotted an exceptionally beautiful pair of twelve-week-old tabbies, each streaked in a different pattern of black and gray, both possessed of exquisite little tiger faces dominated by great green eyes perfectly outlined in pencil-thin black. It was late summer, and everywhere in the city, there were cages full of rescue cats being attended to by one animal rescue person or another. But now the yearning carried the day, and out I went in search of the affectionate creature who would purr in my lap, sleep in my bed, and at all times enliven the apartment with its antic presence. My mother’s fear of anything that moved on more than two legs had infected me quite early, and for most of my life I, too, have been either frightened of, or repelled by, animals-dogs, cats, sheep, cows, frogs, insects: you name it, if it came near me, I shuddered. Some years ago, after having lived alone for decades, I found myself yearning for something alive in the house besides myself and, to my own great surprise, decided on adopting a cat. Philadelphia Museum of Art/Gift of Seymour Adelman, 1968/Bridgeman Images
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