As soon as we got home, Ninja became a Klingon. She wouldn't leave me alone. "Hold me", she whined, "Love me!" she pouted. "Pet me!" and so I did. And she was happy. Still clingy but happy.
Bear, not so much. "I'm not coming out from under the bed until I am darn good and ready and you can't make me. So there." "I am sooooooooooo mad at you." And truthfully, I'm not sure why. He had the best beastie sitter ever. My neighbor and friend, Joanie, who loves all things furry, doted on the three. They lacked for nada!
Pippin danced and chirped and was still the same ole Pippin until this morning when she too, turned into a Klingon. Now where Ninjie is a sweet, sweet beast who snuggles and purrs and snuggles some more, Pippin goes right for the jugular. Literally. She attacks in a prone position, nuzzles into the folds of your neck and licks with her sassy sandpaper tongue. After three swipes, it becomes uncomfortable, four swipes and she has hit the dermabrasion level and five, you are looking for blood. How can such a soft little creature have a tongue made out of razor blades? What is she hiding in there? A buzz saw? A porcupine? A cactus?
I think she comes close to the old saying of loving someone to death. EEK! And then come the paws. She does her little making bread routine, sideways pawing on my face and neck. She pushes those paws with such intensity that I can feel my throat move over two centimeters and pop back into place. She sticks them up your nose. Pokes your eyeballs and plugs your ears . . . all in a simple attempt to say, "Gee, mom, I missed you." Does it get any better?
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