What kinds of things does Scout dream about? What wakes him up with a sudden jolt? What little phantasmagoric entities does he spy out of the corners of his eyes in the unassuming nooks and crannies of the room?
As I was writing that dramatic little paragraph burrowed under a blanket in bed, Scout suddenly leapt up onto the bed, nipped one of my forearms, chirped, and then leapt back off the bed before I could react or catch him.
Now he’s observing me from the lower level of his cat tree.
That cute little mothafluffa.
He loves to tap me with his paw or nip one of my limbs and dash away — his version of playing tag. Now he’s back, preparing to tackle my arm until I say uncle and give him his supper.
And heat up mine (leftover soup).
Never a dull moment in ホームBASS.