We took her from her family when she was a baby." "She's a domesticated animal, she can't have Stockholm syndrome." "But...I still feel awful.  I mean, what if she only loves us because she doesn't remember what life without us was like?" Just at that moment, the kitten stood up, arched her back, enjoyed a luxurous stretch accompanied with a yawn worth of MGM studios, and rubbed against my hand, purring. "Yeah," said the girlfriend, rolling her eyes, "Stockholm syndrome, all right." Ah yes.  Summer.  When thoughts of various -- isms, obscure pre-Revolutionary history, and whether or not it's worth trying to sneak some hard liquor into my next class turn to honest concerns about the psychological stress my kitten has suffered from being loved by two semi-obsessed humans.  It's going to be a good three and a half months. At the beginning of last semester, I trudged across campus to my library, my bag full of heavy books, my hips aching and knees popping. It was not a good day for walking. After entering the library, I headed straight to the elevator, knowing that I wouldn't be able to walk up a flight of steps without more pain. I went to hit the button and then realized a note had been taped over the buttons. The note, scrawled on a pink piece of cardstock in dark black ink, said: Don't use this elevator! Save energy and take the stairs instead! I pulled off the note, threw it in the