Tybalt continues to be underfoot. When I'm home without B., he follows me around: upstairs, downstairs. He wants to play with toys on a stick, he wants to be petted, he wants to lick my hair (he's learned to jump up onto the top of the back of my work chair), he nuzzles his food canister because he wants to be fed. And sometimes he gets it.
Last night when I came home late, I found an electrical circuit glitch. I'll tell you about that later, when it is, I hope, fixed: the point here is that I spent about 30 minutes running around, from upstairs where the lights were out to downstairs where the fuse box is, trying to figure out the problem (the breaker hadn't tripped, so what the hey?). Anyway, there I was, rushing about, and so was Tybalt. He was with me almost every step of the way.
Today for the first time since we let him out, B. washed the bedsheets and we made the bed all the way from scratch. This is going to be fun with a cat's help, I said, and it was. For each layer, from the mattress pad on up, Tybalt wanted to be buried underneath it. When we got to the top sheet, the first one that isn't fastened down to all four corners, we let him stay. I was reminded of Seven who, though he didn't participate in making the bed, did like to bury himself underneath the covers, making a notable lump: at least, until he figured out that our apostrophes to "O, sweet lump" a la Pyramus to the Wall, were making fun of him. Then he stopped. I don't think Tybalt will be that choosy.
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