Death Row

My mother is terrified of cats. We're talking "jump on the couch, close your eyes and yelp" terrified of cats. And I have a cat.

So for the duration of my mother's 11-day visit, we locked the cat in our home office with food and litter and a taunting view of the living room through French doors.

Gabriella, on the other hand, loves the cat. At least once a day, she set up shop by the cat's makeshift jail cell, bringing peace offerings and news from the outside, as if she were a mother visiting a beloved child on death row.

Gabriella would hold up a new pair of pajamas to the French doors and ask: "kitty cat, you like?" Then she would line up her stuffed animals--giraffe, bunny, tiger and duck--and demand "look, kitty cat, look!" Finally, she would sing, "kitty cat, I neeeeed you, kitty cat, I misssss you," before running off to her books or blocks or dinner and promptly forgetting the cat altogether.