A flying punch in the tits.

In the course of trying to release my psoas muscle – which largely involves lying on the floor being very still – I have had:

– Henrijk crouched right beside my head, purring pointedly at me in a way that suggested my participation was required.
– Millie’s cold, wet nose dabbed on my body at various points, without warning.
– Millie yodeling (Millie yodels).
– Anton curled up contentedly between the points of my pelvis, grinning at me.
– Henrijk rolling about next to me on his back, copying me when I did the moves.
– Anton wrapping himself like a turban around the top half of my head, in a series of ecstatic, rolling loops.

And when I finally stood and stretched, Anton got so excited he leapt straight up like a salmon … a boxing salmon … and delivered me a flying punch in the tits.[1] I laughed so hard my legs went wobbly and I had to have a little lean on the arm of the sofa. Oh cats, cats. Oh cats.

Everything I do in this house is enhanced and interrupted – nothing more so than floor exercises – by the presence of this absurd, highly interactive, unabashed, inappropriate MUPPET ARMY.

[1] A friendly punch from Anton is like being tapped by a particularly gentle little child who wishes to ask a polite question. You just don’t expect a cat to suddenly appear at chest height. Unless you have Oriental cats.

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2 Responses to A flying punch in the tits.

  1. Hester says:

    That video has left me with actual tears in my eyes, just from how utterly lovely it is. Hurrah for Anton!

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