The Kittens and the Crocheted Tail Mrs. Ellsworth had a tail made of knitting yarn. Not a real tail, of course—she was human, though some neighbors whispered otherwise—but a thick, fuzzy scarf she'd crocheted years ago that dangled from her coat pocket like a lazy appendage. Every winter morning, she wound it three times around her neck and set off to "inspect the premises," as she called it. This meant shuffling down her icy porch steps to glare at trash bins, poke frozen ferns with her cane, and occasionally rescue a stray pinecone she deemed "out of place." The kittens noticed her first. Three of them, bundled in mismatched fur—patches of orange, gray, and one with a sock-like white foot—had taken up residence beneath Mrs. Ellsworth's sagging porch. They'd arrived sometime after the first snowfall, drawn by the warm hum of her ancient furnace vents. From their hiding spot, they watched the yarn tail sway hypnotically with every step. On this particula...