Tybalt is two years old now, and just beginning to show hints of calming down into adulthood. A little. Sometimes when he curls up right beneath my pillow, he's now willing to cuddle, to take the petting hand without grabbing at it with claws and teeth as if it were a cat toy. Sometimes.
And once I woke up from a nap on the living room couch to find him curled up on top of me, and disinclined to move as I struggled to get up.
Most of the time, though, it's playtime in Tybalt City. To run to expectant spots in the living room and meow loudly until one of his favorite toys is produced so that he may chase it: this is how he prefers to spend his mornings. Maia will come and observe and perhaps play too, and Tybalt will let her, the more amazing that.
He also gets up, further than before. The top of the refrigerator is now one of his regular hangouts. On the kitchen counter, if you come close, he will raise his front end and lean in - and, all of a sudden without realizing it, you find that you are carrying a cat, a long meat loaf across your arms. Scritch his head with whichever hand reaches over there; he likes that.
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