Poor Moth is feeling beleagured. Here she is, up on the kitchen counter. First, I get up at 2.40 a.m. to spend the day (night?) at a meeting "in London" - she was pleased enough to have an extra handful of kibble at that strange hour. Then - when I eventually emerge, groggily - there is that Thing still around. Moth is quite happy having a Kitten in the room, so long as Gramsci doesn't come within a paw's length of her, which he inevitably does. He thinks it would be fun to play. She's not quite there, yet ...
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