Cats and Kittens

Sometimes I miss the kittens my two grown cats used to be.
They were both precious babies, and I look at their big, Virginia ham sized butts now as they lay around like slugs, and I long for those days when I could lift them in one hand, with room to spare.
My girlfriend la has twin kittens, Cookie and Oreo. They even look like my boys James and Bart, except they weigh two or three pounds each, as opposed to 15 pounds per cat.
I stayed at her house Sunday night and I was reminded why I am happy after all that my boys are grown.
Cookie spent the evening meowing and strolling up and down my body. Oreo spent his time biting anything that moved. My girlfriend spent her time heaving them three or four feet from the bed, causing them to land with a deafening thud on the hardwood floor.
Then they would quickly climb back on the bed and start fighting.
Their little claws are like needles and easily penetrate sheets, thin summer blankets and human leg tissue. They think everything is potentially edible, including toes, fingers, noses and nipples.
Kittens meow louder than adult cats, so they can call for help if they get into danger.
Cookie and Oreo have the same meow decibel level as a Metallica concert, and they like to meow when they are happy, sad, angry, lonely, bored, curious or sleeping.
Earlier Sunday night, I was in la's pottery studio and walked through the nearly invisible screen door, giving myself a bruised eye socket. She had injured her left rotator cuff when she overdid it earlier at the gym.
Between my eye, her shoulder and those two tiny feline instruments of evil, we had a restless night. I'm sort of glad to be home now with my lazy grown cats, who sleep like bags of cement the minute the lights go off.
My kitten fever has been cured. For now.