Madhouse

Sam and Otis have become buddies in rowdiness. The neighbors must wonder what goes on here, because in the early morning a passerby on the street can hear the sounds of heavy feet purposely clomping loudly down our stairs at top speed, and raucus hooting and chortling. Otis is only a few feet ahead of Sam, body streaking past the stair railing, his skidding feet shirring up the throw carpet at the bottom step. Round and round the island in the kitchen they tear, Otis' feet whirling in circles, like a cartoon character, trying to get traction on the tile floor, Sam waving his arms and laughing manaically. Then it's back up the stairs for a game of hide-and-seek in the hall: who will charge out of a doorway and scare the other first? This can go on for several minutes until Sam is out of breath or Otis has had enough. Sam flops down on the couch, and Otis runs under it. We see just his tail sticking out "like a handle," Sam laughs. He reaches down and bats the tail, and Otis' front feet suddenly emerge from under the couch and wrap around Sam's ankle.

Otis falls asleep on my lap every evening, while I'm working on my laptop-on-top-of-the-arm-of-the-chair computer. He looks like a dear, sweet, little cat. His sleepy "Frrrrrrrrrmph" sound when I pet him, half asleep, adds to his innocent presentation. He has to have his face on my hand when he sleeps. Occasionally decides that my hand should be cleaner than it is, so with his #9 sandpaper tongue, he tries to remove a layer or two of skin.
But let Sam make a sudden move toward him and his ears are flat, tail in an S-curve, and with a wild-eyed expression, he is dashing off helter-skelter in the opposite direction, ready for another game.

I'm so glad God has given us these little creatures. For some of us, it is as close to mothering as we can get. For others, they are like little bits of heaven for us to enjoy before the time. We are just so happy he is in our lives.