McCatface came in about eight last night, nervously at first, then with more confidence. She stopped at the living room doorway and surveyed the chaos of the newly established puppydom, then stepped carefully between the discarded balls, ropes and soft toys, sniffing disdainfully at one or or two before settling into her favoured spot atop the back of my futon.
McPup was asleep while this was going on, but when she woke, she bounded over and looked up at McC high above, springing on all fours, tail gyrating like a loose tie in a gale, while yipping and whining. She’d found a new friend with whom she could play.
McCatface regarded her with the kind of passive-aggression only cats can muster. Here is the new enemy, she seemed to say, I must plot her demise.
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