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dragonlady7via https://ift.tt/2LOYNZI
Yesterday my brother in law pointed out one of Farmbaby’s current verbal tics. When she thinks maybe someone’s fibbing, she asks, “For real?” and then follows it up with, “In person?” as though that’s the logical next question.
(As I was writing this she did it again.)
Just now she hollered down the stairs to her father, “COME AND VOTE ON THE RENO SWEATSHIRT.”
Her father was busy playing on his guitar, as it’s a Sunday afternoon and he rarely has any leisure to do it. I was enjoying it; he’s not immensely skillful but he’s knowledgeable and makes pleasant noises, unlike the few attempts I’ve made at interacting with a guitar. So I threw myself on the grenade, and hollered back up the stairs, “WHAT’S A RENAL SWEATSHIRT?”
She was talking to herself, and I couldn’t make it out, so I went upstairs and discovered that on my bed she had built a tower, beginning with an upside-down cardboard box, and then a milk crate, and then a large cushion, and then several other cushions, and several books. It touched the sloping ceiling, and she gestured, and said, “It’s a castle with a Reno trap in it!”
“Uh,” I said. Reno is one of the cats, and i know he’d been sleeping on my bed. Heart sinking, I said, “Is Reno under there?”
“It’s the Reno Sweatshirt,” she said proudly.
I carefully pushed up one corner of the upside-down cardboard box, and was greeted with the somewhat urgent protrusion of a small white and gray muzzle. “Uh,” I said, “he really doesn’t want to be in here.”
“But it’s a trap for him,” she said. “I want him to be in here!”
We had a little chat about, like, consent and boundaries, which would be a damn sight easier if Reno would just fucking scratch her like the other cats, and released him collaboratively. He was smart enough to run away, at least, and doesn’t seem too traumatized, but.
I don’t know why she thinks a sweatshirt is a kind of a tower, but she does.
(Your picture was not posted)
Yesterday my brother in law pointed out one of Farmbaby’s current verbal tics. When she thinks maybe someone’s fibbing, she asks, “For real?” and then follows it up with, “In person?” as though that’s the logical next question.
(As I was writing this she did it again.)
Just now she hollered down the stairs to her father, “COME AND VOTE ON THE RENO SWEATSHIRT.”
Her father was busy playing on his guitar, as it’s a Sunday afternoon and he rarely has any leisure to do it. I was enjoying it; he’s not immensely skillful but he’s knowledgeable and makes pleasant noises, unlike the few attempts I’ve made at interacting with a guitar. So I threw myself on the grenade, and hollered back up the stairs, “WHAT’S A RENAL SWEATSHIRT?”
She was talking to herself, and I couldn’t make it out, so I went upstairs and discovered that on my bed she had built a tower, beginning with an upside-down cardboard box, and then a milk crate, and then a large cushion, and then several other cushions, and several books. It touched the sloping ceiling, and she gestured, and said, “It’s a castle with a Reno trap in it!”
“Uh,” I said. Reno is one of the cats, and i know he’d been sleeping on my bed. Heart sinking, I said, “Is Reno under there?”
“It’s the Reno Sweatshirt,” she said proudly.
I carefully pushed up one corner of the upside-down cardboard box, and was greeted with the somewhat urgent protrusion of a small white and gray muzzle. “Uh,” I said, “he really doesn’t want to be in here.”
“But it’s a trap for him,” she said. “I want him to be in here!”
We had a little chat about, like, consent and boundaries, which would be a damn sight easier if Reno would just fucking scratch her like the other cats, and released him collaboratively. He was smart enough to run away, at least, and doesn’t seem too traumatized, but.
I don’t know why she thinks a sweatshirt is a kind of a tower, but she does.
(Your picture was not posted)
