Today was a splendid day, and Torvald sauntered out on the porch for a sun bath under glass. It seemed just the time to let the home team get another exposure to his scent and premises and the heady experience of raiding his food dish, which seems to create a certain serene smugness among them.
Yeah, it’s still a glacial process, whose small victories involve Mr. Ferguson forbearing to run away from the cellar door when I slip through it, and batting a ball against the door crevice for Torvald to bat back. After getting bitten once and seeing the two of them roll down the staircase like an old Warner Brothers cartoon, I’m letting them call the pace.
Fergie circled the water dish to sip from all sides, wanting to make a thorough imprint on Torvald’s quarters. I don’t think Torvald really noticed anything.
Still, I gave him an extra vigorous session with Bird On A Stick, his very favoritest toy, whose survival in the face of four months of ruthless abuse is nothing short of uncanny. You will notice that he does not just bat at Bird On A Stick. He snaps and gapes. That is a mouth full of serious chompers, and I am not getting any closer to it than I can help when he is in a fractious mood.