We want the babies to pet the cat nicely. We show them how to scratch behind its ears, cuddle it in their soft, lumpy laps. The babies pretend to try. They hold the cat beneath its front legs, hugging it tightly. But deep down, we know they're thinking bad baby thoughts: When does a kitty learn to swim? How far can a pair of kitties be dragged by their tails? The cat swats at them, leaps for the window sill, its back arched in a rise of gray fur. We wonder if the cat can read the babies' minds. We've heard about natural instincts. The babies have their own. Outside, early each morning, they hid under shrubs with thin nylon rope and a pair of sharp scissors. "Here, Kitty, Kitty," the babies call, their faces beaming between thorny branches.