Gorgeous, fluffy, plumptious, cuddly balls of loveliness.
Or in our case, vile, evil, furry balls of complete hatred (bar 2.2 minutes of purriness around dinner time).
When we got Ninja as a kitten, she was already horrible. I think the toddlers at the place where we bought her had been allowed free rein and the poor thing had virtually been hugged to death. So in Ninja’s view, humans = forced cuddles and being carried around by your head. She probably needs therapy.
Still, she occasionally quite likes the Mad Prof and will deign to lie on his bed while he plays XBox as long as there is no actual bodily contact. Yesterday, my happy viewing of Giorgio Locatelli in Sicily was interrupted by a blood-curdling yell.
Turns out, he broke the golden no contact rule, and while rushing to get his hand away from the hissing, snarling Ninja had smacked himself in the face, pushing the nose bit of his glasses into the bridge of his nose, actually drawing blood.
The air was blue.
Still, she provides the odd bit of entertainment, like this morning when she jumped up onto the kitchen windowsill, didn’t realise it was icy, slid off and landed on a heap in the patio.
What? Of course I didn’t laugh.