Her eyes grow wide, peering up at me from her half-cocked head, tense. Coiled spring. Front paws splayed out in front with hind legs quivering.
Ready to bolt.
She landed this way after attempting to jump on the bed, inadvertently landing on the queen bee of the pack, the 12 year old shorthair with personal space issues. A move that does not come without consequences.
So much for a few more minutes of faux-sleep. I’m out of bed now and here she is staring at me like a rattler on the verge.
I give her a nonchalant “let’s go”. Bad idea, the spring unloads.
Rocketing out the bedroom, legs spinning tires in a drag race struggling for traction, into the next, up and off the back of the couch, bouncing back to the floor and hurtling into the bedroom again, up on the bed, and now she’s fixed back into her tight coil. Barking at me to boot.
Good morning to you, too.