“Glen Grant” is not exactly a household name in the abode of most Scotch drinkers, and that is precisely why I invited it into mine. This stray cat needed a home and I had plenty of love and affection for it, second only to the near-retirement age librarian a little way down my leafy street with five Persians peering out her picture window and batting at suspended amethyst crystals, slightly out of reach.

So, one chilly evening, I stoked up the hearth, leaned back in my beat-up corduroy recliner, enjoyed the warmth and snap, crackle, pop of the straw yellow flames licking the split logs, tuned my radio to an NPR profile of Ralph Nader, pulled an ancient (circa early 1970’s) black and orange macrame blanket over me, glanced at a stack of unread New Internationalist and Mother Jones mags, but decided against them, and instead simply shared a pensive moment or two with kitty while lazily gazing into the blossoming fire.