Ysabel watches him play for entertainment value, does resent it vocally when he rams her like a runaway barrel or insists on going into my room, which is HER territory, and pursue her there. But she’s beyond pulling her punches, she’s ‘correcting’ him a tap when he becomes obnoxious. Which is often.

I’m cooking chicken: a lot of chicken, about 40 pieces, in the George Foreman grill. They’ll go into two bags, one to freeze, one to use, and they’re diced up to use for stirfry and Thai chicken, enchiladas, and whatever. I’m being climbed on—the Demon Kitten, aka the Demon King, remember the David Bowie role? He wants to be Near someone. I’m elected, because I’ve got his other obsession, Ysabel. And I smell like, yes, chicken.

Now he’s gnawing on my bare ankle. He’s just finishing his first teething round: yesterday he was truly unbearable, wanting to chew on your fingers, ankles, anything. Today it’s better.

I decided to bake what I think of as an imari bread, a little bit of every flour in the kitchen. It will probably end up a brick.

Ah, now Demon Kitten has gotten on the bed. He lay down for 2o seconds near Ysabel, and is now back over here crawling on the keyboard.

Then the chicken-beeper went off. I went to answer it, put on new chicken, came back and he’d taken possession of my chair.

I gathered him up and took him to Jane.

Jane: “But what did he do?”

Me: “Everything.”

Newsflash: He’s baaaaaack. Climbing on my leg.