This is Archie, choosing last night’s viewing.
He’s the latest addition to the family, having moved in on September 22nd. Today, he’s almost 16 weeks old.
It’s been 20 years since we’ve had a kitten in the house, and he’s already earned the nickname The Black Tornado. He’s constantly on the move: jumping and climbing and rolling and flying from one piece of furniture to the other.
He never stops. Until he does. Then he lapses into a kitten coma for 20 minutes, until he suddenly explodes into wakefulness, ready to explore this new and exciting world again.
At this point he’s all ears and eyes and one very long tail, leading us to believe he’s going to be a big boy in a few months. He consumes any kind of food left unattended, like some sort of roaming furry garbage disposal.
Callie and Sabrina, our two older cats, divide their time between hating him or fearing him or being confused by him. For his part, Archie is constantly jumping on them, trying, I think, to get up a good game of tag.
If I sit down to read or stretch out on the couch, a purring Archie instantly appears, climbing on me, demanding a spot to nap, some soft stroking and, occasionally, a finger to nibble on.
We only have a short time to enjoy this phase of Archie, the tiny dervish, filled with wonder and searching for adventure. I want to experience as much of it as I can.
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