Louisa Alcott listed with her sins: Excessive Love of Cats, so recognized the need for firm restraint when love transcends the bounds of mortal whim. Before Colette, she knew cats spoke her tongue, read minds and candle flames. The poet in her felt the braille of rubbing fur, the corresponding purr of secrets told and kept. Kits changing into cats, the seasons passed. She read in slits of eyes philosophies her father never knew. There was a stray who crossed, recrossed her life, appearing at a door, a window, scratching at a sill. Her pleasure in his company stayed well beyond the hour; made misdemeanors of mere envy, sloth, desire.