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Many small Cold Shoulders Battle of the Christmas Tree Part 2
Comment to Meridae here
The air of disdain and irritation was so thick it was almost palpable. Five miserable lumps of kittens, all in perfect, hunched over mini-meatloaf position (to better convey their disapproval) sat spread around the room, their backs pointedly turned on their no-longer-so-beloved papa. Not a tail twitched, not an ear flicked. Even Tux, who could never sit so perfectly still for very long, was managing to do so.
Ranel sighed. On the hearth, his peace offering - a plump, juicy rat, so freshly caught it was still twitching - laid untouched. He was, in a word, in Big Doodoo.
He cast imploring feline glances of his own at his children, putting all the power behind his gaze than only a feline can muster, willing the contact through the tips of their tails and up their spines. Nothing. Not even an involuntary skin spasm - and Nebbie was supreme ruler of those.
Ranel humphed this time, becoming irritated in turn by the continued anger from his offspring. Oh, like they would have been able to resist climbing and pouncing and tumbling with the tree if Warne hadn't scared them into submission. Like Santa would ever refuse to come to perfect kittens like his! And not only that, but it was really all Warne's fault in the first place! If he'd only see sense and put a 'look but do not touch' geas on the tree like Ranel's very wise parents did, none of this would have happened. But nooooo, Warne had this silly rule about 'we are not using magic to raise out children'. Pbbt. The kittens were familiars - they were magic! How could you NOT use magic to raise them.
Casting one final glance around the room at the unmoving mounds of miserable moggies, Ranel realised it was time to haul out the big guns. Whispering the appropriate cantrip, he set a blaze roaring in the hearth, then plopped himself down on the thick, warm hearth rug. Rolling over onto his side, he exposed his plump, pinked up nipples to the room, knowing that none of the kittens could resist the lure of Papa Ranel's milk bar for long.
Only, well, they did. Ranel blinked in shock. The kittens were almost weaned, sure, but they all still enjoyed the sleepy before bed suckle they got in the nursery each night. And all of them tried, at least once a day, to convince Ranel they weren't weaned and he should lay down and feed them.
But now, nothing. Not even a wrinkled nose to indicated that they'd at least scented the milk. Nothing but hunched shoulders and tightly furled tails, downward pointing whiskers and ears tilted at that peculiar angle that could only say Ranel was Not Getting Out Of This One So easily.
Realising he had, perhaps, messed up in a big way this time, Ranel slid rapidly into his human form and went to find his husband.
He had, bethoughts, some making up to do.
Master list for this series HERE
Comment to Meridae here
The air of disdain and irritation was so thick it was almost palpable. Five miserable lumps of kittens, all in perfect, hunched over mini-meatloaf position (to better convey their disapproval) sat spread around the room, their backs pointedly turned on their no-longer-so-beloved papa. Not a tail twitched, not an ear flicked. Even Tux, who could never sit so perfectly still for very long, was managing to do so.
Ranel sighed. On the hearth, his peace offering - a plump, juicy rat, so freshly caught it was still twitching - laid untouched. He was, in a word, in Big Doodoo.
He cast imploring feline glances of his own at his children, putting all the power behind his gaze than only a feline can muster, willing the contact through the tips of their tails and up their spines. Nothing. Not even an involuntary skin spasm - and Nebbie was supreme ruler of those.
Ranel humphed this time, becoming irritated in turn by the continued anger from his offspring. Oh, like they would have been able to resist climbing and pouncing and tumbling with the tree if Warne hadn't scared them into submission. Like Santa would ever refuse to come to perfect kittens like his! And not only that, but it was really all Warne's fault in the first place! If he'd only see sense and put a 'look but do not touch' geas on the tree like Ranel's very wise parents did, none of this would have happened. But nooooo, Warne had this silly rule about 'we are not using magic to raise out children'. Pbbt. The kittens were familiars - they were magic! How could you NOT use magic to raise them.
Casting one final glance around the room at the unmoving mounds of miserable moggies, Ranel realised it was time to haul out the big guns. Whispering the appropriate cantrip, he set a blaze roaring in the hearth, then plopped himself down on the thick, warm hearth rug. Rolling over onto his side, he exposed his plump, pinked up nipples to the room, knowing that none of the kittens could resist the lure of Papa Ranel's milk bar for long.
Only, well, they did. Ranel blinked in shock. The kittens were almost weaned, sure, but they all still enjoyed the sleepy before bed suckle they got in the nursery each night. And all of them tried, at least once a day, to convince Ranel they weren't weaned and he should lay down and feed them.
But now, nothing. Not even a wrinkled nose to indicated that they'd at least scented the milk. Nothing but hunched shoulders and tightly furled tails, downward pointing whiskers and ears tilted at that peculiar angle that could only say Ranel was Not Getting Out Of This One So easily.
Realising he had, perhaps, messed up in a big way this time, Ranel slid rapidly into his human form and went to find his husband.
He had, bethoughts, some making up to do.
Master list for this series HERE
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