Mom's folding up warm laundry. I like warm laundry. Edmund is stupid. He likes smelly dirty laundry, but then again, he has no taste. I realize that Mom-scent is intriguing, but warm, soft laundry is way better. Sometimes I think I'm the only one from this litter with any taste. Someone has to be sophisticated --

Ooooh. I love sweatshirts. Especially when they're warm. So soft against my fur. Thanks, Mom. You're the best.

My brother is such a brat. Why can't he find his own warm sweatshirt to sprawl on? Mom's folding up all kinds of clean, warm clothing on the bed; couldn't he see I've already claimed this one? Granted, he's warm, but good God, at this rate he's going to push me off the bed. What a lard ass. Note to self: chase him around the house more. Gotta get that boy on a weight-reduction regimen.

Speaking of, ow.

Maybe if I give him a little warning nip on his tail, he'll move over and quit squashing me.

Hmm. That was a good idea in theory, but in practice, it only made him mad. Oops. However, for all his size, Edmund is still a wimpy little mama's kitten at heart. All it takes is one little threat...

...and suddenly he's all Buddha-kitty, sweetness, and light once again. But at least he's not lying on me any more. It's nice to be able to breathe again. I should try to teach him that this not-squashing thing is good. But you can't just show kindness to a cat like him; you have to enforce it. So, you put in a bit of a play fake. Reach up for a nip...

...and turn it into a face-washing session. He's such a sucker for that. A couple of swipes across the base of his whiskers and he's putty in my paws.

Well, not actual putty. Imagine having to clean that out from between my toes (and what cute toes they are, might I add?). Nasty, nasty. You get the idea, right?

Mom keeps pointing that little box at us. I don't like it. Perhaps I should eat it. Nevertheless, Edmund is behaving nicely now. I think I'll hold off boxing his jaws for the time being; he's being good. I think my play-fake nip did the trick.

The sweatshirt is cold now. It's not fun to lie under it any more. Edmund has decided he'd rather lie on the clean towels, which are still warm. Mom is concentrating more on folding clothes than pointing that stupid clicky box at me, which makes me happy.

I am master of my domain. Life is good.