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Being a girl in a brown household- you can probably run a whole house by the age of 10.

the first born in a brown household doesn’t have a childhood they have job training to be the third parent

Unmute !

Every Species of Kitten

To celebrate the USA’s win–and it is a win, in spite of all the very real concerns–I thought I’d make another cat post, because they make people happy and it’s a happy day! Going to try to find three images per species, but some are pretty hard to find as many of these cats are rare and/or elusive!

First off, the subfamily of roaring kittens! Pantherinae:

Clouded leopard (Neofelis nebulosa):

Sunda clouded leopard (Neofelis diardi), not common:

Leopard (Panthera pardus):

Tiger (Panthera tigris):

Snow leopard (Panthera uncia):

Lion (Panthera leo):

Jaguar (Panthera onca):

Second and final (and much bigger) extant subfamily in Felidae, which is the purring kittens! Felinae:

Marbled cat (Pardofelis marmorata) does not want you to see its babies!:

Asian golden cat (Catopuma temminckii):

Bay cat (Catopuma badia), babies are elusive to say the least:

Serval (Leptailurus serval):

Caracal (Caracal caracal):

African golden cat (Caracal aurata), this is literally all I could find in the way of kittens:

Pampas cat (Leopardus colocola):

Andean mountain cat (Leopardus jacobita), very elusive baby:

Ocelot (Leopardus pardalis):

Margay (Leopardus wiedii):

Kodkod (Leopardus guigna), when the adult already looks like a kitten, the kitten looks…exactly the same as the adult, just smaller:

Geoffroy’s cat (Leopardus geoffroyi):

Oncilla (Leopardus tigrinus):

Souther tiger cat (Leopardus guttulus):

Bobcat (Lynx rufus):

Canada lynx (Lynx canadensis):

Eurasian lynx (Lynx lynx):

Iberian lynx (Lynx pardinus):

Cheetah (Acinonyx jubatus):

Cougar (Puma concolor):

Jaguarundi (Herpailurus yaguaroundi):

Pallas cat (Otocolobus manul):

Rusty-spotted cat (Prionailurus rubiginosus):

Leopard cat (Prionailurus bengalensis):

Fishing cat (Prionailurus viverrinus):

Flat-headed cat (Prionailurus planiceps), couldn’t even find any photos, had to screenshot a video:

Sunda leopard cat (Prionailurus javanensis), another not easy to find kitten!:

Jungle cat (Felis chaus):

Black-footed cat (Felis nigripes), just remember this species has one of the highest kill rates of any cat:

Sand cat (Felis margarita):

Chinese mountain cat (Felis bieti):

European wildcat (Felis sylvestris):

African wildcat (Felis lybica):

and finally, Domestic cat (Felis catus)!:

Remember, there is only one species of kitten on this list that belongs as a pet, and that is our beautiful domestic cat. Some of the wild species are endangered, and as precious as all these babies, the wild ones are best left to the wild. :)

Runaway

Agnes was a practical girl through and through. So she paid no mind to the wild rumors circulating around the strange new tenant of Widow Amberley’s cottage, other than to note the slow spread of neglect and disrepair across the garden, then the house itself, as the month marched on.

Until the day Agnes was walking by on her way to market and heard the unmistakable sound of sobbing from the back of the house.

It was always better not to get involved in other people’s business, Agnes believed. You could never regret things you never did.

But then the unseen sobber’s breath caught in an absolute moan of despair that would break even the hardest heart. Agnes found herself lifting the gate latch and kicking her way through the weeds around the side of the house.

“Hello?” she called out, uncertainly.

The girl - the new tenant - sprung up to her feet with a surprised gasp. She had the kind of face made to inspire rumors, love poetry, maybe madness too; wide eyes brimming with tears, full lips parted ever so slightly. And her hands too, long and elegant as they wound through the Widow Amberley’s prize tomato vines - 

Agnes cleared her throat sharply. “You were, um. I heard… crying.”

The girl let out a shuddering breath that was half misery, half miserable laugh. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb. It’s just…” she gestured helplessly down. Agnes tried not to let her eyes linger anywhere as she followed the girl’s gesture down to the sad-looking tomato patch. “I killed. It was the one thing she asked me to keep alive, all her precious tomatoes, and I killed it because I’m too stupid to grow a plant apparently.” The girl took another gasping breath and swiped her sleeve across her eyes in a gesture that somehow looked dainty. “I’m so sorry,” she said with heartfelt sincerity to the Widow Amberley’s kitchen garden. “You deserved better.”

It was the apology that did it. Agnes dropped her market basket to the side, started shucking off her good jacket. “Come on, now,” she said. “It’s not dead, it just needs less water and a good retying. See, it’s come down off its trellis.”

The girl sniffled again but cast hopeful eyes on Agnes. Agnes swallowed. She definitely should’ve kept going. But it was too late now. She looked around, taking of stock what needed to be done right away and what could be done later.

“All right,” Agnes said. “Show me what you’ve been doing so far.”

Rose, as Agnes suspected, was not stupid, just utterly unprepared for country life. It took Agnes a week to start reversing the cottage’s decline and whip Rose into sufficient shape as a newly minted domestic goddess. 

“Those are all the things I have to do every week?” Rose had wailed as Agnes wrote out a chore list.

“No,” Agnes said mercilessly. “These are your dailies. We haven’t even started on once-a-week tasks. And after that we’ll talk monthlies and seasonals.”

Rose let out a moan, clasping a hand to her heart, but Agnes knew her well enough by now to tell when Rose was being serious and when Rose was being theatrical. When Agnes wasn’t at Rose’s cottage, Rose had started showing up at Agnes’. “Learning how it’s done,” she would insist, “And paying you back in chores.” Agnes couldn’t object to the company. Even if Rose didn’t speed the chores along, the time did seem to pass more pleasantly.

“You’re getting to know the new tenant quite well,” said the grocer sweetly, handing Agnes two baskets of groceries instead of Agnes’ typical one. 

The deliveries boy was more direct. “Is it true she’s some vanished princess?”

Agnes took the baskets back without a smile. “She’s not familiar with our climate. Wanted some gardening advice. And of course she’s not some vanished fairy tale, she’s trying to grow cucumbers.” And that was all Agnes would say to anyone.

If they did not bother getting to know Rose themselves, Agnes saw no reason her neighbors should get to hear all about Rose who hated to get up early but made herself do it for the sake of her chickens. Who had whooped for joy the first time she got her bread to rise. Who chattered non-stop as they worked; stories about balls and gowns and society gossip that skirted right up to some terrible indiscretion that could land a girl in a country exile. 

Once, Agnes grumbled about a stain on her best blouse, the only embroidered one she had. The next day half her shirts had disappeared, only to turn up a few days later covered in laurel leaves, roses on vines, cherry blossoms, and oranges. Agnes added four nails in her closet to hang each one carefully. Often times, at night, she’d find herself looking in that direction.

And then one morning, Agnes awoke to the sound of soldiers in the street, banging on doors, crying out the neighbors. “The Princess, the Royal Princess! We know she’s here. Have you seen this woman?”

Agnes didn’t think. She ran, ran to Rose’s cottage and burst into the henhouse where Rose was scattering seed. The chickens squawked. Rose shrieked.

“Please,” Agnes said, stretching out a hand to only person she trusted, her only friend. “Please help me. They’ve found me.”

Based off of this tweet (X) about a witch who decides she’d make a better chosen one than the 15 year old kid who never asked for this.

————–

“I’ve gathered you here today,” the King says, “to give you an important mission. Perhaps the most important mission I will ever assign.”

Tris feels her lip curl at the grave set of his jaw. She can’t bring herself to kneel like the other witches are, can’t bring herself to bow her head, can’t bring herself to feel honored by her invitation to the castle. 

Her village is still burning, a day’s ride to the east. Dragon fire. Can’t be put out. The King’s condolences will warm the survivors as they search for a place to lay their dead.

“The Ancient Dragon shows no sign of going back to sleep,” the King says. He beckons the Court Magician forward. “Lord Monkswood has divined the answer.”

“There is a child,” Lord Monkswood says, chest swelling with importance. He’s not from a witch clan and yet he’s the one standing beside the king, above them all. He holds out a crystal ball. “A child of fifteen summers who has been blessed with divine power. He is the one who will save us. He is the one who can slay the Ancient Dragon for good.”

Divination is small magic, but the situation is dire. Nobody else has been able to divine anything about the Ancient Dragon’s weaknesses. The witches in front of Tris whisper to each other and there’s hope in the words. His words will go down as a Prophecy with how quickly they all are to believe him.

Tris’ nails dig into her cloak.

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Me: *Removes my cat from my lap to do something else.*

My cat: Father is…evil? Father is unyielding? Father is incapable of love? I am running away. I am packing my little rucksack and going out to explore the world as a lone vagabond. I can no longer thrive in this household.