It took Grafite less than three minutes to destroy what it had taken me three weeks to create. I woke up at 3:47 in the morning to the unmistakable sound of his scratch echoing down the empty hall. I got up ready to commit a cat-icide.

— GRAFITE!!! Do not scratch the door! Mommy is sleeping, RONNNNC, ya hear? Sleep-ing! I mean, was, before you tore down the door. Do you see this? I spent sleepless nights designing this so that you WOULDN’T scratch the door! So, how about doing your part, huh? Do not scratch the door, Grafite!

My anti-scratch strategy was to devise a gadget that consisted of a hen-house wire fence attached to a little wooden frame. I went for the most discreet size possible, in order to prevent the gadget from becoming too heavy. After all, I would have to set it up and take it down from the door every day. Everything was perfect. But, to avoid damaging the doorpost too much, I only placed two little fixing hooks to the upper part of the frame, in the hopes that Grafite would understand that I clearly didn’t want him to scratch the door.

The problem is that cats are cunning. They learn fast, much faster than dogs—but they only do what they want to do. And Grafite wants mom to pet him in the middle of the night. It’s as simple as that. So, he used his paws to pull the bottom part of the fencing down, eased himself between the frame and the doorpost, raised his arms and scratched the door obstinately until I got up.

— ENOUGH!!! How can mommy sleep, Grafite?!? You are going to wake up the whole house! Stop scratching now! Don’t you see the fencing? It means do not scratch! No, do you understand? Go sleep with your brothers and let me rest!

I put a weight in each of the lower corners of the frame—they would have to do until morning when I could use the electric drill to fix two more supporting hooks. I went back to my room and laid down praying for sleep to come quickly. I dreamt that I was riding a lilac winged horse. The wind swept through my hair going róc, róc, róc… RÓC?!?

I’m gonna kill that cat.

Ketchup and Mustard have always been very close. First born from a birth of five females, the two cats were practically identical in their fur, so spotted that we could barely distinguish the spots. Ketchup was blonder, Mustard was browner. Them both were sweet and warm, the true liquid-cats, of those kinds that sprawl in a single caress.

Because of some genetic problem, Mustard’s clutches were smaller and smaller. Days before labor, exploding of fatness, the cats disappeared of our sights. They loved to give birth in the dark of the quilts closet, for my grandmother’s despair. Ketchup was always the first, followed, three or four days later, by her sister.

We used to separate the boxes, in order to have nobody enraged by their nephews.

Unsatisfied by having two puppies less, Mustard went to her sister’s box and took, in her mouth the first little ball of fur that found ahead of her. When Ketchup missed one of the babies, went to her sister’s lair and took one of the kittens…. any kitten…

With the difference of the days that the clutches had, it wasn’t unusual to see in one box three fat little cats, with eyes opened and a little one, still blind, mistaken in the intense cat game.

One day, I went to the service area and caught a forgotten kitten… it was too heavy to be dragged by the scruff from a side to another.

Meowed begging for someone, mother, aunt, anyone, that took it back to its brothers’ heat. I took it in my arms; it was tender and shaky, like its little heart, pulsing crazily behind little ribs, of toothpick thickness. I took it to the clutch and arranged the first empty teat I found. Looked for a bigger box and put the two females together, with the eight collective puppies and the eighteen milk faucets. I never found another lost kitten.

Until today, I carry with me the responsibility of having touched that little being that was so fragile. To hold a newborn kitten in our hands change something inside us.