I’m having a ball with that damned kitten, but he’s earned himself a new name. He’s no shy, retiring Mouse, oh no.

His name is Jekyll.

An in, “Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.”

Or perhaps the naughty black crows Heckle and Jeckle (were they Looney Tunes or Mad Magazine? I don’t remember.)

Whichever, he’s a schizophrenic little beastie, as all kittens are. We’ll be lucky to escape with our toes intact. I’m not sure how a four-inch tall ball of fluff is managing to get on the dryer and knock things down. He can tear through a room faster than the speed of sound, leaving a black streak and a little sonic boom behind him. He lurks under the recliner and leaps out at those foolish enough to walk by—he’d better cut that one out, or he’s going to find himself a Manx when someone sits in the chair and scissors off a tail.

But after he’s chased a toy on a string around for a few hours, he lays on my chest and purrs himself to sleep. That must be a survival mechanism in kittens; otherwise, they’d all be drowned at eight weeks.

Little monster.