Milk it, Meera, ye queen of flights down flights

"If you don't stop fussing over me," she warns, writhing in ecstasy, "I'm going to run away and hide in my favorite corner of the basement."

I'm kneading her back, checking for soreness. "If you run away," I whisper into her ear, "I will run after you, for I would miss you like fire."

"If you run after me," she whispers back, "I will join the circus and become their Fantastical Fire-Eating Feline."

"If you join the circus, I will become a tight-rope walker, with Kai in front of me and Brat behind. We'll grip with our toes and cross the rope to gather you up and take you home."

I run my hands down her legs. No bumps. I rest my hands in my lap for a moment and smile at the sparse warm skin in front of her ears--where my favorite cat smell resides. I lean in. But she's not one for patience, tiny toothed Meerabel. The teeth unsheath.

"You haven't checked my tail yet! Nor my neck!" (This, as she twists into all sorts of unnatural positions, creating unbroken curves within curves within curves (did she just say "nor"??))

"Launch yourself once down the stairs," my stern voice says, "and you win yourself extra special loving attention. Launch yourself a second time, and you're permanently barred from the upstairs. Capice?"

"Capice." Meow.