|Meow Meow Meow
||[Sep. 10th, 2006|10:21 pm]
The Boy is not a cuddler. His hugs and kisses tend to be hit-and-run affairs, delivered in a sort of manic exuberance that is sometimes hard to distinguish from the tarantella of didn't-take-a-nap. I find this a hard adjustment after so many years with Middle Daughter, who still kisses us goodnight and greets with hugs anyone she hasn't seen in more than twenty minutes.|
Earlier this week, bored with being The Boy, he took a stab at being a cat instead. He prowled around the room and batted at imaginary strings and butterflies. He chased imaginary mice and lapped up gallons of imaginary milk. He refused to answer to anything but Here, Kitty Kitty Kitty.
One evening, he climbed into my lap. I'm Kitty he admonished when I welcomed him by name. You have to pet me, and I'm only going to talk Cat, he warned. MeOW means I'm hungry. Mew means I want to play. MeowMeowMeow means I love you.
He curled into a little ball and licked at his front paw. Then he raised his head and looked at me intently. MeowMeowMeow.
MeowMeowMeow I said back. And he smiled, a contented kitty smile.