Jump. Dammit. Jump.

T here’s nothing cuter than young kittens, except for when they discover they can feast on wires, cables and other typical loose things and stuff hanging out from computers and other hardware. Also, dog food, because, apparently, you can bat at it.

So yeah, we took in a kitten after we came back from Nova Scotia and the worst part of taking the thing in is that the older cat and the young one are still not used to each other. We were also unlucky with the cats’ names: for years we have called our oldest one ‘Kitty’ (we never bothered to use her ‘real’ name), and now of course that name backfires at us, since the youngest one also seem to relate to the name ‘Kitty’. We end up improvising the names of either cats: depending on the circumstances, the oldest one goes by the name of ‘The Older One’, ‘Grey Cat’, ‘Mrs. Cranky’, ‘Hissy Fit’ or even ‘Precious Little Racist’ (because she’s still hissing at the younger, dark kitten, get it?). The youngest one’s name fluctuates between ‘Little One’, ‘Yo’, ‘The One With The Yellow Eyes’, ‘Vandal’, ‘Miss Flea’, ‘Miauw’ and, yeah, ‘Puff’ (which is apparently, her given name).

Wait a second: Wasn’t I supposed to write about politics and economics?

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