On Saturday a miracle: Britches tolerated Ishmael’s presence in the same room, on the same bed. He loves her, became especially infatuated the night she brought in an almost-dead mouse, put it on her plate, and ate it in front of him, interspering bites of mouse with bites of dry food. He could barely contain himself. I’d hoped she might have a bit of maternal instinct in her to mother this little guy along but no, she’d just as soon he disappear.