We have long since moved the kittens’ basket downstairs. They were getting too fat and frisky for the likes of my room (and it’s vintage crinolines). And they really needed the socializing benefits of being around people and activity all day. Of course, I’m only thinking of their best interests. mmhmm. For some reason though, Jezebel doesn’t quite agree with my assessment. At any time of the day or night she will surreptitiously grab one or the other by the scruff of the neck and take off for the nether regions of my room and the promised land under the bed. I always move them back downstairs.
Except when I don’t… like this morning. Jezebel came galumphing up the stairs, bumping the too heavy kitten on almost every riser. She jumped up onto my bed, looked me square in the eye and plopped little Fauntleroy onto the quilt right between my feet. And when he sleepily snuggled down and began to purr, I relented. Honestly, what else could I do? The poor little thing’s been ill, after all.
And since I know you’ve all been wondering, I’ll share that he’s doing ever so much better. However, I think he’s going to have a hard time shaking his new nickname… Tilty. It’s really starting to stick.