The Writer Makes an Acquaintance
There was a crash for the kitchen, and I put my pen down decisively. “Scooter, what are you doing?”
I pushed myself up with a sigh, and started towards the kitchen. My bare feet made the cedar floor creak underneath them. The wood was cool, and smelled slightly damp. I loved this scent.
As I walked into the designated room, I let out a small cry of dismay. “Oh, Scooter! You greedy feline,” I murmured, and wrenched him off of the counter, where he had latched himself in an effort to get to his beloved treats.
“You’re never going to see these treats again – I’m gonna put them high, really, really high,” I grumbled, and Scooter wriggled to get out of my hands. I frowned. What was making him so jumpy? Scooter lives to be picked up and carried around.
I gave up and let him fall to the floor. He circled my legs and hissed.
A cold hand placed itself on my bare shoulder. My tank top felt awfully revealing at the moment.