Brandi Carlile was running late on account of a kitten emergency. She had arranged to pick up “this kitten thing” for her youngest daughter, Elijah’s, birthday, but then she was told she had to get it in the next 30 minutes, and the cat was an hour away.
So now Carlile was sliding in front of her laptop screen for our interview with wet hair and a pink nose while also smoothly instructing an unseen collaborator in the details of deadline kitten extraction.
Carlile raised her phone to show me a photo of a tiny gray tabby with tired eyes and a mouth like a child’s shaky line drawing. “It’s like a grocery store box cat, you know the kind you get,” she said.