And I get dressed, go down the ladder. Everybody’s real glad to see me, each for their own reason. Ghost wants to go outside. LB’s spent the night certain he’s been abandoned. Click wishes to draw my attention to the deplorable condition of her food bowl. Zoe just wants to demonstrate her ninja foot-fighting skills.
This is a tactical error on Zoe’s part.
I have tried to explain before the problems posed to a dark kitten on a dark floor in a dark room, when she tries to play chicken with my feet. She shows no sign of concern, and I suppose that ought to be flattering. Or maybe not. I haven’t had my coffee, and really could have done with another hour or two of sleep. I’m grumpy. I am tempted to paraphrase a line from Hitchhiker: “If one of my feet just happened to land square on your spine and squash you flat, do you know how much damage it would do to the foot?”
But I keep it to myself. She wouldn’t listen. She never does.
Raising a kitten is a lot like being married, in that one regard.
