My baby boy is fourteen months old.
Liam is a jolly dude most of the time; he delights in people and animals, he is thrilled about food (especially when given the freedom to eat it hand-over-fist), he loves to puzzle through locks and screw-on caps, and he babbles incessantly. He is more extroverted than I have ever convincingly pretended to be, and that is equal parts enthusing and exhausting for me. While I'm not a natural animal lover, I have more in common with a temperamental geriatric house cat than anything else in the animal kingdom: I like my space, and keeping myself to myself, and occasionally I want someone to rub my back. My son is a jack russell terrier: exuberant, restless, noisy, disarmingly expressive. I love him dearly, but by the end of the day, I'm ready to scale a bookshelf and get some distance from his yipping.
Time for that now, actually. Time to enjoy the overnight peace and quiet from the human puppy dog before he wakes us up at six, barking to be let out of bed, fed and taken for a walk.
It's really a pretty perfect metaphor.
Grumpy cat, out.
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