Releasing Baby Jake from his bedroom confinement has been a blessing and a curse.
He's learned to eat peacefully alongside his brothers James and Nick, but when he's not eating or sleeping the trouble begins.
James, at age 7, has very little interest in roughhousing with a kitten. He merely stares, then walks away when he spots Jake crouching down ready to pounce.
Poor Nick, however, has yet to develop the same blase disinterest in the baby.
With his enormously bushy tail, plushy fur and broad back, Nick is the ideal target for the little maniac.
He jumps up and wraps his arms around Nick's neck. Nick pushes him off.
Nick raises a paw to deflect Jake's attacks, Jake bites his paw.
When Nick starts to growl and bear his teeth at little Jakie, he looks up and sees my look of consternation, sighs and moves on, with Jake in hot pursuit.
The baby is a speed demon. He gallops all over the house like a tiny Clydesdale, delighted with the noise he makes on the floor over the house's pier and beam foundation. He's developing some serious leg muscles from all that running--ideal for batting Nick in the face whenever the occasion presents itself.
He's no longer a cuddly ball of fluff at bedtime. Now he's a breakdancer and acrobat in my bed, pouncing whenever I move even a tiny bit.
But one thing will never change. His fat little cheeks are downy soft and I can't resist touching them. He's a little doll.
