As soon as she found her way around the house, Mitsy treated her home like it was an outdoor playground, twenty hours a day.
Sure, she had naps, but they were short-lived compared to play time.
Why is it that kittens always do what they're not supposed to do on their playgrounds, like bratty little boys or something? And don't think they don't know when they're being naughty, because that gleam in their eyes, when you scold them, speaks volumes.
My sofa wasn't a basketball court. My upholstered dining-room chairs weren't little ice rinks. And the backs of those chairs weren't the peaks of the Rocky Mountains. She didn't have to claw her way up the woven wicker backs and cling to the tops like a mountain goat in Tibet. Couldn't she have used the stairs to the second floor for that?
Whenever I was peaceful reading the paper, she'd come flying at me in one mighty leap, landing on the paper and crashing onto my lap, scaring me half to death and destroying the sheets I was reading.
When I wrote a letter, she'd jab at my pen and poke at my hand as if she could do a better job than me.
At the typewriter, she ruined copy by plunking the keys when I was otherwise distracted.
Playing the piano, she'd come from nowhere, lifting herself through the air like a weightless feather, and march up and down the keyboard like some little protege from another world.
She never did all those things if I wasn't already doing them.
So what does that reveal?
Uh huh. She was competitive. With me, of all things.
As a kitten, even.
Sure, she had naps, but they were short-lived compared to play time.
Why is it that kittens always do what they're not supposed to do on their playgrounds, like bratty little boys or something? And don't think they don't know when they're being naughty, because that gleam in their eyes, when you scold them, speaks volumes.
My sofa wasn't a basketball court. My upholstered dining-room chairs weren't little ice rinks. And the backs of those chairs weren't the peaks of the Rocky Mountains. She didn't have to claw her way up the woven wicker backs and cling to the tops like a mountain goat in Tibet. Couldn't she have used the stairs to the second floor for that?
Whenever I was peaceful reading the paper, she'd come flying at me in one mighty leap, landing on the paper and crashing onto my lap, scaring me half to death and destroying the sheets I was reading.
When I wrote a letter, she'd jab at my pen and poke at my hand as if she could do a better job than me.
At the typewriter, she ruined copy by plunking the keys when I was otherwise distracted.
Playing the piano, she'd come from nowhere, lifting herself through the air like a weightless feather, and march up and down the keyboard like some little protege from another world.
She never did all those things if I wasn't already doing them.
So what does that reveal?
Uh huh. She was competitive. With me, of all things.
As a kitten, even.
Kittens!
ReplyDeleteThey're such boys :P Even if they're girls, they act like toddler boys and do anything they want!
I love them anyway.