Boy kitty

On Sunday I joined Dr. Moo and the four-year-old child of a family friend who's undergoing treatment for breast cancer. The kiddo, who we'll call meowmeow, needed to burn off some steam, so we went to a kiddo museum. As the only child of a single mom, said kiddo is very good at playing by himself, even while navigating a crush of other shorties in the big ole shorty habitrail that's suspended from the ceiling of the kiddo museum.

(While meowmeow was clambering about in a separate museum crawlspace, Moo and I were giggling at an adorable pink-cheeked tubby little fellow who was running around yelling "I'm a big boy! I'm a big boy!")

It turned out meowmeow's momma wasn't feeling well enough to go out to an evening meeting, so Dr. Moo and meowmeow stopped by my place post-museum to meet my kitty. The Daphs is not known for her social skills, and she made her scariest-sounding yowly noises at meowmeow. He immediately informed me "I don't mind" and then gamely sniffed the dry cat chow I poured into a bowl for him. Later, he crawled down the hall to check out where kitties go to the bathroom, and then grabbed a couple of stuffed kitties from my bedroom, then sat with them in a circle that also included my live kitty.

When he left I gave him a scratch on the head and a catnip toy. He tried to convince Dr. Moo to let him crawl on all fours down the fire escape, but Dr. Moo smartly told him real kitties would be scared of fire escapes, so he let her carry him to his travel box (aka booster seat) in the car.