We’re terrible authority figures.

Brian and I were sitting in the kitchen the other night, and Tej (our beloved six-month-old-on-Tuesday kitten) was giving us our nightly workout. See, before we had him declawed he would get his workout by scaling my legs to make it to greater heights; now, though, he’s discovered that he doesn’t need front claws to gain traction — all he needs is a good strong pair of hind legs. So he jumps up everywhere he’s not supposed to be, to explore the sink and nap on the table and maybe sneak a drink out of the bamboo plant on the windowsill if he can get to it before we get to him.

He jumped for the fifth or maybe the seven hundredth time (math isn’t my strong suit), and I just really couldn’t be bothered to make Brian go after him again. When Brian gave me the “do I have to fetch him now?” look I said “no, just let him be…he isn’t hurting anything.”

Tej, encouraged by my passive acceptance of the situation, walked across the sink to the other counter where he found…the dish drainer. That was far enough for the evening’s journey apparently, because he plopped down there and hardly moved until we went upstairs for the night.

This, despite having a brand-new kitten bed less than three feet away. Kittens...they're like toddlers.

I mean, I know he’s not supposed to be in the dish drainer, but he’s just so damned cute that I can do little else besides throw up my hands and say “Okay, YOU WIN.”

His plan is working perfectly.

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