We have two black cats. The little sleek one with the gimpy leg is mine: Jasmine (aka the Jazzy-cat). Tang is our big fuzzy; she answers only to Monstro. We got them both as adult cats from the local no-kill shelter and they are a joy and delight.

The last time I got pregnant, Jazzy wouldn't get off of me. Any time I sat down, she'd be on my ever-reducing lap. This time, though, it's Tang who has been most aware.

They've both been through what I'm going through, so I think they're somewhat empathetic. Tang and Jazz both had a litter of kittens in the lives they had before coming to our homes. Tang's adoption paperwork included a report from her foster family that she was a very good momma. It doesn't surprise me — she's the cat who would run to get me when baby Lex started crying.

(We got no such report about Jazzy-cat, leading us to believe that 1) she wasn't in a foster home when she gave birth and 2) her kittens probably met no good end.)

In a not-unrelated aside, Monstro and I keep a plastic shopping bag of unmatched socks under our bed. Every six months or so we go through the bag to find matches — don't laugh, last week we found five pairs!

We thought to match up the socks because a lot of them have found their way into our kitchen as of late. At first, I figured it was Lex playing around…

…Until tonight, when Monstro and Lex and Mom and I were eating dinner and I saw Tang, carrying a black sock in her mouth. Then she dropped it on the kitchen floor and began crying over it.

As I type this (from my office, which is also in the kitchen), the floor behind me is littered with socks.

Poor Tang.