I have a stalker.

I have a stalker - fortunately, she's of the four-legged, furry variety, so there's no need to kick her little butt or call the cops or anything.

Basically, people abandon animals near our home, and we take them in. This is how we got her mother, who very recently had a litter. This little fur ball, who is not yet named, is the runt of her litter. She's a tiny, mostly-black ball of fur who isn't, sadly, getting enough milk from her mama.

Fortunately, God saw fit to inspire us to invent powdered replacement milk for kittens, so the little goober's getting plenty of food.

From me. With a medicine dropper, because she was (until recently) too small to figure out even the kitten bottle deal. Now, though, she's just old enough to lap up the milk.

So, because I've been feeding her, she recently decided, for some reason, that I'm her mother. Even though her real mama is RIGHT THERE ON THE FLOOR, feeding her litter mates, I'M the one who has to feed her, and clean her up, and tell her what a GOOOOOD kitty she is.

Every time I come into the room, she leaps up from wherever she's hiding and makes a beeline for my shoe. She's still tiny enough to fit in my girly little palm, but there she is, clinging to my size-8.5-men's Skechers, shrieking her tiny lungs out.

I really, really don't need another kitty. I already have four feline overlords, and they unanimously voted against me being enslaved by yet another kitty.

However, it doesn't appear that I'm going to get much of a choice.