Poor Gramsci. Moth is deaf to his entreaties, his beseeching little miaow, his offering of a toy mouse under the kitchen door, his darling white and tabby paw, that little bit of a muzzle peeking through. So deaf, indeed, that my own breakfast time was spent slinging that mouse back into the hallway, only to have it pushed back again by little Grams. Bring him in - and he jumps on her back - halfway between some kitty-rape scenario embedded in his DNA, and Go Get'em Cowboy. She doesn't like it. Gramsci, for all his charm and cuteness, just doesn't take this basic fact on board ...
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