Okay, I have offically decided: the kitten is really the Antichrist. The mark of the beast? Calico striping. The number of the beast? The 666 times that the kitten has begged for milk, misbehaved, broken something, chewed on a cord, decided to help my writing by walking randomly across the keyboard while I'm getting a glass of milk, attacked the bigger cats, got stuck in the kitchen cabinet, decided that keeping my car keys from me was a fabulous joke, or climbed the vacuum cleaner bag and yelled at me.
All this is today.
At the moment, she's sitting almost directly in front of the monitor swatting at the amazing line of little black things that just keeps growing and growing....
No, kitten. Bad kitten. Do not jump at the monitor. It hurts when you hit your head on glass.
Why fear the Antichrist when it's six inches long, fuzzy, and has an annoying habit of purring at you when you extricate it from someplace it shouldn't be? For some reason, generations of the faithful have dreaded the advent of the Antichrist. Little did they know that a bowl of kitten milk and a can of Little Friskies would decide the fate of their souls.
No, kitten. Bad kitten! Do not sharpen your claws on books!
I think the favorite of the day, however, has to be the 'trapped under the bed' moment. My bed has one of those storage units under it, with drawers and doors that lead into the fascinating cave known as 'Celina's junk pile.' This morning, the kitten (while I was asleep) learned how to open the door and crawl inside, where she somehow shut the door. After her exploration was completed (and she got hungry), she realized she was trapped.
Trust me: only the emissary of Satan could make such a noise at 6:15 a.m.
Speaking of which, her grandmother is sitting across the room glaring at me. Her name? Satan.