Nat’s cat
Simon and Cherry are both laughing so hard, clutching their stomachs and pointing. Pointing at me. Nat is giggling endlessly, and keeps reaching to try and touch the fuzzy animal that is atop the shoulder of my jumper. James has just walked in to the room, and is just staring up at my head in awe.
“Papa, why is a kitten sitting on your head?”
The reason is of course, because Nat took a liking to a stray cat as Simon was getting her from school, and it followed her home. She brought it inside, no matter how many times I told her not to, and it ended up preferring to take a nap my hair rather than a couch cushion. I’ll admit, the little thing is cute. Fluffy orange and white, barely larger than my hand. We’d probably have to find her a special kind of milk for kittens if we did end up keeping her. Which we aren’t. I have already mentioned this to Simon, numerous times, but he does seem to hear me. Cherry’s already named the scrawny thing, Mordecai, even though she’s supposed to be on my side of this argument. Traitor.
Simon is pulling the kitten from my head, with a great amount of difficulty, and handing it to Nat, who gives me great big eyes and a hopeful smile. Aleister Crowley, Nat’s smile.
“Can we keep him, Papa? Pleeeeeeease?”
Her smile is contagious.
“Oh, alright.” I say. Because I am weak. I can never say no to her. Maybe it’s because she looks deathly like Simon, and there is never a day that her tiny kisses on my cheek, don’t instantly make everything better.
She squeals, and Simon gives me a smirk. I sneer at him. Then I go back to petting the orange fuzzball nestled in Nat’s lap.