MasterB is convinced that the moments following his breakfast (and before mine) are for playtime. He seems completely impervious to the fact that before I am outside a bowl of porridge and a cup of coffee the day has not begun. So my porridge stirring is disturbed by cries and noises off as things crash to the floor, or I hear suspicious tearing and scratching sounds.
This is when the playrug gets tangled if he hasn’t already attacked it in the night, and increasingly when the throw over the sofa is tunnelled under and rearranged. The basket in the corner which is his scratching place gets shredded a little more. Unlike his middle of the night playtimes, he thinks his post-prandial hour is time for some interactive games. He wants me to chase, throw things for him to bat back at me, waggle the sadly depleted feathers on the end of the wand so that he can show off his acrobatic skills in pursuit, scatter my papers from where I have left them, race from one room to the other and hide under quilts and under chairs.
Every morning I complain to him, and every morning I succumb. How could I not? I’d have to have a heart of stone to refuse him this morning bonding session. And I am more than a little flattered that he wants this wonky old biped as a playmate. I know I have said it before, but just how cats manage to keep their reputation for standoffishness and independence beats me. Both my boys have been attention seeking, affectionate and highly companionable.