Salem and I are playing our nightly game of Truth or Dare. I look at him and say, “I dare you to go from the living room to the kitchen without touching the floor.”
“Easy peasy,” he waves a paw at me. He turns and bounds from the top of the sofa to the back of the chair in one glorious leap that rivals that of any leopard. Then he soars from the back of the chair to the breakfast bar. As he slides across it, he knocks off two cups before careening to a stop.
He smiles and looks at me, “My turn. Truth or Dare?”
My physical prowess tends to rival that of the fat cat Garfield than anyone else, so why embarrass myself? “Truth.”
Salem narrows his eyes at me, “Did you tell Shorthair that I have fleas?”
“Ummm…” (What I said was that I saw a flea on you. Really, I don’t know how these things get so exaggerated.)