I don't know about the rest of you, but I get so used to these little hairy varmint critters that I guess I take them for granted.

A few minutes ago I was sitting reading a book, when I felt a warm, fuzzy presence against my leg. Absentmindedly I dropped one hand and, recognizing Willoughby by the feel of his soft, plushie fur, began scratching his chest with my fingertips.

At least I thought it was his chest. I could tell I was between his legs, but when it felt lumpier than I thought it should be, I looked down in alarm. I was scratching vigorously between his hind legs, just below his blowhole, and he had the most idiotic grin on his face I've ever seen. And purr? An idling diesel is nowhere near.

Can't say as I blame him; I'd probably be purring myself.

Copyright © David Yehudah
November 27, 1999