Stratton the monkeycat, perched on my shoulders, advising me of his worldview. If only I spoke Mrow, no? He’s up there now, purring fit to bust, thrilled with something he surveys in this shoulder-height kingdom of his. It’s just the mood he’s in tonight … every time I put him down (often) he finds a way to get back up.
And, just to teach me not to remove him from his chosen throne, he keeps digging those daggers most call claws into my back on his way up. He’s declawed up front (oh, shut up … until you’ve had furniture absolutely destroyed by a cat, I don’t want to hear it … besides, he’s an indoor monkeycat, so hind claws are plenty for any escape just-in-case scenario), but those hind daggers are lethal as all get-out.
Harrumph; he must know I’m posting about him, as he’s just left the vicinity with a head snapping leap to the coffee table. The new (to us) coffee table that spent a year plus in the garage. Along with the sofa table, which is now the across-the-front-windows table, seeing as the sofa is of the reclining nature and putting a table behind it would be pure idiocy.
So, where was I? Oh, yeah … aaaand, not to be outdone, Briggsy the monkeycat has just climbed aboard. Blerf. I’ll talk at you later, this typing with monkeycat in lap is even more difficult than with monkeycat around neck.