Loki taunted me with his needy demands for play and attention, sticking it to me with paws full of claws each time I failed to respond properly.
And when I turned away in a feeble attempt to protect myself?
He paused, front legs perched upon my legs and within easy striking distance of my whole self.
Birds flitting about the patio caught his attention, drew his devilish stare, broke his mischievous attacks.
I was thankful.
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Loki doesn't believe in the word 'no.' To him, saying it sounds more like a grunt or some other meaningless, incomprehensible noise made by silly humans. This apparent lack of regard for others usually means an interruption by him cannot be ignored. He's not just going to go away, but…
February 11, 2007
In "Loki"
I've made clear many times how Loki doesn't take no for an answer. When he wants something, he demands it with much pushing and hitting and general violence. He's singularly responsible for more damaged clothing and profuse bleeding—on my part!—than the rest of The Kids combined. The problem is he's…
March 11, 2007
In "Loki"
beneath the bed rests absent friends long silenced his rubs against my legs alone my breath heals the scars lie on the floor; my soul attends the shadow cat who no longer begs loving treats and rides in cars and sounds of cereal boxes rent in kitchens drawn…
May 5, 2007
In "Henry"
