January 17, 2012

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Our girl Paris is almost seventeen and still tears around the house like a kitten. Every day she brings us, with great fanfare – a wild chorus of meows and yelps, one of her toys, usually a mouse. She is a giant fluff of beauty, sass, and sweetness.

Even after thirteen years together, they are not great friends, Paris being the great mystifier, playing for one moment before growling fiercely and trying to beat the tar out of Milo. That being said, he does his fair share of tormenting, biting her ear to claim her warm spot a favorite pastime. Siblings at their worst, I suppose.

Look at his nutty face. Our boy is cuddly as ever and does very little running around the house, save when someone rings the doorbell, and he’s off like a shot. He’s got old man hips and a crooked gait, but will bring string or ribbon in the most nonchalant fashion and patiently wait for you to summon it to life in wild swirls on the floor, happily pouncing for one minute before getting bored and sauntering off.