When I emerged from my comfy, warm caccoon of snuggly covers this morning (rather reluctantly, I may add), I stumbled into a cat toy explosion in our living room. Normally all the cats’ toys are tucked neatly into a basket in the corner, but in the middle of the night, a ruthless monster with no regard for my obsessive-compulsiveness tore madly through the room, flinging toys willy-nilly into every recess, and the aftermath was gruesome.
I was soon clued into the identity of this heartless beast by Gary, who scanned the mess and proclaimed, “That’s your kitten that does that.”
The kitten in question, the one we found recently meowing weakly in a bush, sat with a bemused look on his little face, waiting for his breakfast and oblivious to the havoc he had bestowed upon our living room.
Hmmmph. I picked up the toys and put them neatly back in the basket, but I suspect this is going to be like handing a rattle back to a mischievous baby, to be flung back over the side of the crib just to behold the youngster’s power to induce an adult to retrieve it…again…and again.
Why do I still refer to the little guy as “the kitten” instead of a proper name, you may ask? I call the kitten “Munchkin”, and Bear calls him “Sweetie Pie”, while Gary tagged him with the affectionate moniker, “Cross-Eyed Little Turd”. The kitten regards Gary with a decidedly forgiving face and seems to be gently thinking “You know not what you do”, then moves in for a loving nuzzle.