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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About chiller

Rachel Coldbreath spent 20 years working internationally as a technical specialist on large data collections for law firms, before becoming disabled. She blogs on a variety of topics from the news and politics to gardening and how very annoying it is, being disabled. Habits include drilling holes about 1mm away from where they ought to be, and embarking with great enthusiasm on tasks for which she is neither physically nor intellectually equipped.
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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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