The Patter of Little (smaller even than mine) Paws…
Skinbag and I were taking one of our regular constitutional patrols about the boundaries when he looks down at me oddly albeit with the merest hint of a smirk.
“How would you like a little friend to keep you company at home these days?”
Now I can tell immediately by the slight uncertainty behind those slowly tightening green pissholes in the snow he’d like to think of as eyes, that I’ve already got this argument won. All I have to do is confirm his place at the bottom of the food chain. He’s tried it before, he want’s to get one of those damn little fuzzballs in to be my successor. Little bastard will just wait until I’m sleeping one day then accidentally roll me off the roof. Then of course the little shit will try and look all distraught when the Skinbag gets home after work. I’ve seen how these things work before.
I stopped strolling, looked the Skinbag squarely in those beady green “Hors d’œuvre” and then just reached up and stuck both sets of front claws into his leg lightly, flexing just enough for him to get the message, then wandered off. I suspect he’s got the message again for a while. I guess that should hold him off six months or so. Humans!
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