My brother had Siamese kittens who acted like deranged baby squirrels.
They leaped off the back of a dining room chair and latched onto a piece of the chandelier and swung, monkey-like, from the crystals until he found them there.
They shredded his curtains with their mountain climbing, knocked over vases and broke more things than they were worth.
But that's because he had more than one little furry monster.
Now I only had Mitsy, so she had no obnoxious little brother to show her all the sins of a little kitten's world.
She hung from the sheers, but never once shredded them.
She walked the mantel, tip toeing around all precious ornaments.
She perched on chair tops, back-dropped off the back of the sofa, slid across the fabric of the cushions like a car on ice, and never once snagged the material.
She was an angel, my kitten.
Until the day she crawled behind a heavy expensive antique mirror on the mantel and sent it crashing to the floor.
I never told my brother that one.
He would have gloated. Enjoyed it, even.
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