Are all kittens….

….like this one? Each morning Mojo the Terrorist reduces my desk to a shambles. He pays particular attention to the USB ports behind my iMac and my notes, already piled haphazardly to the left of my keyboard, are now well scrambled. I might as well break a couple of eggs over them to complete the confusion.

He has drunk from my water glass and upset it despite my fractured vigilance while I attempt to do some work. And the keyboard, Ah! the keyboard, trampled as though by a cattle drive and flashing sundry apps on my desktop and losing me any files I am working on. I set him on the floor but in a minute he is back again by means of launching himself at my lap then vaulting to the desk. His launching pad–my thighs–are a network of scratches that sting almost as much as the wounds on my hands and fingers.

I must rescue him many times a day; once his cries brought me to him hanging from the lattice blinds, another time when his paw was caught in the cat door. His big sister Loaner has taken to hiding in the spare bedroom, but Mojo follows her right in and it does something to my heart when I find them both on the bed arranged like a pair of odd-sized commas as they nap. He follows her about and grooms himself whenever she does. I am counting on her to teach him the niceties of cat hood for he couldn’t have a sweeter role model for life.

But when his energy flags and he must sleep he nestles on my arm and I gather him close as he, purring, slumbers for a good hour as I work one handed. He is getting heavier each day and I am considering devising a sling for my arm.
When I read in bed the two of them lie with me, Loaner at my side and Mojo on my shoulder under my chin. My reading matter perforce must be slim enough to manage with one hand, and I really no longer care, in the warmth of these two companions.

My nephew comments via email that I must be absorbed in the new kitten. He has no idea.


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