Intemperance Epilogue Volume I
Copyright© 2026 by Al Steiner
Chapter 12: New Pussy
Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 12: New Pussy - Intemperance isn’t over yet—we still have lots of loose ends to tie up. Volume I picks up after Book X as Jake, Laura, Celia, Caydee, and the rest of the Kingsley orbit discover that life goes on, whether you’re ready or not. Expect music, love, grief, family, crows, weed, questionable decisions, and all the usual Kingsley antics along with the antics of the surrounding Kingsley orbit.
Caution: This Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Fa/Fa Lesbian BiSexual Heterosexual Fiction Polygamy/Polyamory
Kingsley Manor
April 16, 2005
Jake stood near the sectional in the entertainment room, hands on his hips, studying the five-foot cat tree like it was a piece of stage equipment that might fail under load.
“Think that’s stable enough?” he asked. It was sitting on a wide platform but was otherwise unsecured.
Celia didn’t look up from where she was kneeling on the floor, unpacking toys from a shopping bag. “It’s a cat tree, Rev,” she said. “Not a suspension bridge.”
“Yeah, well,” Jake muttered, stepping forward to give the base a cautious shove. It rocked just enough to make him frown. “If this thing tips over and crushes the kitten on day one, that’s not a great start.”
“It’s not going to crush the kitten,” she said, smiling faintly. “Cats are agile.”
“That’s what they say. Internet says a lot of shit though.”
They had received Laura’s text twenty minutes earlier: Got pussy. Doing paperwork. Be home soon.
Jake had stared at it for a moment, then fired back: they had kittens then?
The reply had come almost immediately: too much 2 go into on text. Good pussy though.
That was the extent of the briefing.
Since then, they had been operating on faith—and dealing with nine hundred dollars’ worth of kitten supplies.
Jake stepped back and gave the tower another look. It was positioned just behind the bend of the sectional, tall enough that the top perch sat at about eye level when he stood upright. Carpeted, cubby-holed, layered like some kind of feline condominium complex. Two hundred dollars for a bunch of carpet glued to plywood.
“Caydee says he needs vertical options,” Celia said.
Jake snorted. “Yeah, I read that part too. ‘Vertical territory reduces stress.’ We’re building this thing a stress management program before we even meet it.”
Celia laughed softly and pulled a wand toy free from its packaging, flicking it once to watch the little stuffed fish bounce.
“No birds,” she said. “Just like you commanded, sir. Caydee is going to be peeved at you. She specifically wanted feathered stuff for Meeko.”
“You can’t always get what you want,” he said. “I’m being practical and wise. We are not encouraging anti-crow behavior in this house.”
Across the room, Sean stood with his hands on his hips. He had just toured the layout—the main tree in the entertainment room, another in the computer room, one in the gym, one in the dining room, and one more in Caydee’s bedroom. Beds in three separate locations. Toys everywhere. It looked less like preparation and more like an occupation.
“That’s ... a lot,” he said finally.
Jake shrugged. “Caydee had a vision.”
Sean walked over and pressed down on one of the lower platforms of the main tree, testing it.
“This one was two hundred?”
“Two hundred.”
“And there are four more?”
“Five,” Celia corrected.
Sean blinked. “Five?”
Jake spread his hands slightly. “Look, I didn’t set the budget. I just approved it.”
“You approved nine hundred dollars’ worth of cat stuff?”
“I also approved three guitars for me and C and a so-called ‘rehearsal saxophone’ for Laura last quarter. What’s your point?”
Sean opened his mouth, then closed it again.
Jake moved out toward the foyer where the water fountain sat in its box. He crouched down, opened it, and began pulling out the pieces one at a time, turning them over like he was trying to reverse-engineer the thing.
“This looks like it belongs in a dentist’s office,” he said.
“It’s for hydration,” Celia replied. “Cats drink more if the water moves.”
Jake held two pieces up, trying to figure out how they connected. “So we’re tricking it into drinking water?”
“Yes.”
“Makes sense,” he said. “It’s good to start a relationship with deception.”
Sean wandered over to the bed on the brick hearth and pressed a hand into it. It gave slightly under his palm, soft and plush.
“This is nicer than my bed.”
“You’re welcome to curl up in it,” Jake said.
“Maybe later.”
There was a brief lull in conversation as they worked—Jake assembling the fountain with a low level of annoyance, Celia sorting toys into loose piles, Sean making small, unnecessary adjustments under the guise of protecting the feng shui of the house. He was clearly excited about the new family member. He wouldn’t have admitted it if a blowjob was at stake, but it was apparent by looking at him and watching him behave.
Jake finally snapped the last piece of the fountain into place and set it down carefully. “Alright,” he said. “That looks right.”
He nudged it once, then left it alone like it might bite him.
“Food goes here too?” Celia asked, standing now and brushing her hands together.
Jake shrugged. “Internet said not next to the litter box, so ... here’s fine.”
“Here’s some water for the fountain,” Kira said, handing him a measuring cup with two cups of water in it.
“Thanks, Kira,” he said, giving her a smile.
“It’s from the dispenser,” Kira said. “Caydee told me that Meeko never drinks tap water.”
“We have filtered well water coming out of our taps,” Jake said. “I’ll venture that it’s more pure than the dispenser stuff.”
“I’m just doing what Caydee said,” Kira told him. “Caydee is queen bee. She told me so.”
Jake shook his head a little. “Dispenser water it is,” he said, pouring it into the reservoir.
He then turned the thing on. It spit up a little arc of water about two inches high. The arc then dropped back down and disappeared back into the pool and the reservoir below it. He had not exactly been expecting the Fountains of the Bellagio or anything, but he had been expecting something more entertaining for $49.99.
Jake turned away from the fountain and started toward the bar refrigerator, already reaching for the thought of a cold beer.
He didn’t make it. His cell phone started ringing from the end table next to the couch. He glanced over, saw Owen’s name on the screen, and picked it up immediately.
“Talk to me, GM,” he said.
Owen had already called twice that morning for last-minute advice about the proposal mission he would be starting a little more than an hour from now. Both previous calls had involved contingency planning for scenarios so unlikely they bordered on science fiction. Jake had handled them anyway.
This was clearly going to be another one.
“I’ve been thinking,” Owen said.
“You really should not do that right now,” Jake advised.
Owen laughed like it was a joke. It wasn’t.
“What if we get a blowout on the ride up?” he asked. “I mean ... I have triple A, but will they cover my motorcycle?”
“Call it a hog, GM,” Jake said.
“Sorry. My hog. Will they cover that? I can’t even check because it’s Saturday. And if they don’t, what do I do? Carry enough cash to pay for a tow? And how can I propose if that happens? Do we wait until the tire is changed and then continue the ride? I think that would blow the mood a little, don’t you?”
Jake closed his eyes for a second and took a slow breath.
“You’re overthinking this shit, GM,” he said. “Way overthinking it.”
“I just want to be prepared.”
“You are prepared,” Jake said. “If something like that happens, you abort mission, deal with the situation like you do any situation, and we plan another mission for another day.”
There was a short pause.
“But what about the tire?”
“What about it?”
“If we blow a tire—”
“You call triple A,” Jake said. “If the shit ain’t covered, you use the KVA business card, pay for it, and square up later.”
“Oh ... well ... but what if it happens somewhere there’s no cell reception?”
Jake let out another slow breath.
“Then you flag someone down and get a ride to where there is reception, or have them call for you when they get clear,” he said. “You’re on a heavily traveled California scenic highway in broad daylight, GM, not in the fuckin’ Sahara riding camels.”
There was a pause on the other end.
“Oh,” Owen said. “Well ... that makes sense.”
“Chill pill, GM,” Jake said. “That’s what you need right now. Stop thinking about shit going wrong. Not helpful. If something does go wrong, it won’t be anything you could have predicted in advance anyway. That shit almost never happens. You’ll deal with it in the moment, like most of life.”
He shifted his weight, leaning lightly against the back of the couch.
“You’ve already got contingencies planned for the most likely curveballs that could be thrown at you. That’s all you really need to do in a deal like this. You’re dialed. From here on out, you just go with the flow.”
“Go with the flow,” Owen whispered like it was an incantation. His voice had settled considerably. “Good idea.”
“Yeah.”
“Thanks, Jake.”
The line went dead.
Jake lowered the phone, glanced at it for a second, then nodded once to himself.
“Glad to help,” he said.
He set the phone back down on the end table and resumed his original mission, crossing to the bar refrigerator and pulling it open.
Jake tilted the bottle and watched the IPA roll into the frosted mug, the amber liquid blooming under a slow head of foam. He was just setting it down when Yami came in through the side doorway, moving with a little more energy than usual.
“Any word?” she asked.
“They’re finishing up paperwork and will be home shortly,” Celia said from the couch.
“Do you know what kind of kitten they got?”
“She hasn’t told us that yet.”
Yami frowned slightly at that, like she’d been hoping for more. “That’s unusual. Laura usually texts with details.”
Jake took a sip of his beer and leaned back against the bar. “Whatever it is, it apparently qualifies as ‘good pussy,’” he said.
Celia didn’t look up. “I’m still choosing not to engage with that.”
“You didn’t mind engaging with it last night,” Jake said slyly.
“Jacob Glenn Kingsley!” Celia barked. “I will wash your mouth out with soap.”
Jake chuckled. “It wasn’t my mouth that needed washing out last night.”
Before Celia could fire back, Yami interrupted. “Uh ... guys,” she said, casting her eyes at Kira, who had watched the exchange calmly and without even basic curiosity. She had heard much worse in this place.
“Uh ... right,” Jake said. “Sorry, Kira.”
“Nothing to hear here,” Celia said, making a lip-zip gesture.
Kira climbed up onto one of the barstools beside Jake and immediately began outlining—at a level of seriousness that suggested formal documentation might soon follow—what she clearly believed would be her role in Meeko’s life. This included, among other things, her expected access, her responsibilities, and what enforcement mechanisms would exist to ensure that those privileges were not unreasonably denied by Caydee, who she had already correctly identified as the governing authority in all kitten-related matters.
Jake listened to this with the calm patience of a man who had absolutely no intention of getting involved, offering the occasional nod and noncommittal response while allowing her to work through the details.
Across the room, Sean wandered over and dropped onto the couch beside Celia, stretching out like he belonged there. Yami followed a moment later, glass of iced tea lemonade in hand, and sat down on the other side.
They talked about the incoming cat for a bit—what it might be, how old, how big—but without real information it didn’t go far. Just guesses, half-formed ideas, and Caydee-based projections.
Then Celia shifted slightly, her voice lowering just a touch.
“Anything to report on the project?” she asked.
Yami had told her and Laura about last Tuesday night, about the carefully planned and deliberately executed biological conception attempt—as she termed it. The two wives had, of course, told Jake almost immediately. And Yami undoubtedly knew they had told Jake. But the three of them had settled into an unspoken agreement to pretend Jake knew nothing, saw nothing, and heard nothing, sparing everyone the awkwardness of having to acknowledge it out loud.
Yami’s expression softened, the energy changing without becoming serious.
“There’s not much to do at this point but wait,” she said. “It’s only been five days since ... you know. My pre-menstrual period won’t even start for another five days or so if I’m not pregnant. No way to tell until the period either comes or doesn’t.”
Celia nodded, considering that. She knew Yami had never taken a birth control pill in her life—everything with Kira’s father had been handled with condoms, and there had been no sex at all after that until this deliberate and purposeful attempt to conceive. She had that in her corner.
“Are you regular?” she asked.
“I’ve always been pretty regular,” Yami said. “Never more than a day or so out of sync. And even that’s rare.”
Celia smiled warmly. “It’s just so exciting.”
“It is, isn’t it?” Sean said, beaming. “He or she could be in there right now, working his way down to your uterus, Yamster. There is nothing more exciting than that.”
“You’re right, Seanster,” she said with a smile.
“Do not call me ‘Seanster,’” Sean grunted at her.
“Anything you say, Seanster,” she returned.
Celia watched the two of them—the two ... whatever it was they were to each other. It was a strange dynamic. Yami had actually fucked Westin, who was, for all intents and purposes, Sean’s husband. Sean knew they had fucked. Had helped set it up. And now they were just sitting there and they were ... fine. More than fine, really. Relaxed. Comfortable. Like it had been discussed, understood, filed away in whatever mental cabinet they used for things like that.
It was strange. Not wrong—for obvious reasons, Celia wasn’t wired to see it that way—but strange in the way that unfamiliar dynamics always were at first glance.
Was it like how she didn’t mind when Rev fucked Teach? That didn’t bother her in the least. In fact, it was kind of hot and sometimes she just watched and played with herself. There was never jealousy, never possessiveness.
It had to be something like that. Not exactly the same—nothing ever was—but built from the same basic DNA. Same underlying code, just expressed differently.
She let that sit for a second, turning it over just enough to understand it, not enough to dissect it.
Then they heard it.
The door between the kitchen and the garage opened. They couldn’t see it from the entertainment room, but the sound carried clearly through the house. A shift in air. A change in presence.
Someone was home.
A second later, Laura’s voice confirmed it.
“We’re home!” she called, bright and unmistakably pleased with herself.
Everyone in the room moved at once—subtle, but immediate. Sean straightened. Yami set her glass down. Celia pushed herself up from the couch. Even Jake turned from the bar, beer in hand, attention snapping to the hallway.
Anticipation filled the space like a held breath.
Laura appeared first.
She came into view at the end of the hallway, carrying a large paper box with ventilation holes punched into the sides. She held it carefully but without ceremony, like it contained something important but not fragile.
Caydee was right beside her, practically vibrating.
“Don’t crowd him,” she said immediately, stepping forward and throwing an arm out like a riot cop holding a line. “You’ll spook him. Everyone just hang back.”
Everyone hung back.
Kira leaned forward anyway, eyes wide.
“It’s Meeko!” she said happily.
“Meeko!” Cap echoed, having climbed down from his perch and toddled into the room, drawn by the sudden surge of energy.
Caydee shook her head, firm and absolute.
“His name’s not Meeko,” she said. “It’s George.”
“What happened to Meeko?” Jake asked.
“There is no Meeko,” Caydee said, a little sadly. “George was already named George. We can’t just change his name.”
“Why not?” Jake asked. “He’s a kitten. No way he’s gotten used to George yet. And that’s lame. That’s not a cat name. It sounds like the dude who’s delivered the mail in some Leave it to Beaver neighborhood for the past thirty years. Or maybe the dude who sells savings bonds at the bank because he’s the only one who knows how to do it.”
“He’s not a kitten,” Caydee barked impatiently. “He’s like two years old. He’s a real cat.”
“Not a kitten?” Celia asked. “Why not?”
“They didn’t have any kittens,” Laura said. “And George here kind of picked us.”
“An adult cat?” Jake asked. “But we bought two hundred dollars’ worth of kitten food.”
“I’m sure George can eat kitten food,” Laura said.
“But don’t give him any until I check with his vet,” Caydee said.
“I’m not giving him shit,” Jake said. “He’s your cat and that was the deal, and ... wait, did you say ‘his vet?’”
“There’s a vet’s office that specializes in cats in SLO,” Laura said. “Sharon recommended them. They have board certified feline specialists on staff.”
“Who is Sharon?” he asked.
“The lady at the animal shelter,” Laura said. “She’s the one who introduced us to George.”
“I see,” Jake said slowly.
“Is George ... uh ... nice?” Celia asked.
“No, C,” Laura said, giving an eye roll. “I brought home a freakin’ Tasmanian Devil because he had a cool name.”
“Okay,” Celia said. “Dumb question. But ... is he completely nice?”
“He is adorable,” Caydee said. “He likes his belly petted and he purrs. And he’s so soft. Wait ‘til you pet him, Daddy.”
“I’m not likely going to be petting him much,” Jake said. “He gets to live in the house. He stays out of my way and I stay out of his way. That’s the deal.”
“Okay, Daddy,” she said, pouting a little.
“I’m not gonna be mean to him,” Jake promised. “It’s just ... I’m not a cat person. George needs to understand that.”
“I’ll teach him,” Caydee told him.
Laura carried the box into the entertainment room and set it carefully on the coffee table.
“Everybody sit down and be chill,” Caydee instructed, slipping deeper into command mode.
Everyone sat down and was, at least in appearance, chill.
Caydee approached the box like it was a delicate negotiation.
“George,” she said gently. “It’s Caydee again. The one who talked to you all the way here in Mommy’s car. We’re at your new home now.”
A soft meow came from inside the box.
“Yes,” Caydee said, nodding. “I’m going to let you out. I just wanted to tell you there’s a bunch of people out here, but they’re all nice like me. No one is going to hurt you or chase you. They might want to pet you though.”
Another meow came from inside—different this time.
Caydee took that as confirmation.
“Here we go,” she said.
She untucked the flap and opened the narrow side of the box.
From his spot on the couch, Jake caught the first glimpse—greenish-yellow eyes, wide and alert in the dim interior. Then the cat stepped forward, just enough for his head to emerge into the light.
“He’s a ginger,” Jake said. “Did that go into your decision?”
“Of course not,” Laura said. “We didn’t even discuss it.”
Jake gave her a look. “You can’t lie to me. You know that.”
“Okay,” Laura said. “We discussed it. But that’s not why we made our decision. It’s just a nice perk.”
“They’re going to blame George for the red hair in the shower drains,” Celia said.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Laura snapped.
“Yeah,” Caydee added. “You have no proof we talked about that.”
“Jesus Christ,” Jake said, shaking his head. They’d been talking about lawsuits too much around her lately.
George took another cautious step forward.
He paused, nose lifting slightly as he sampled the air, eyes wide and alert—interested, but not yet convinced. After a moment, he took a small step back again.
“He’s a little nervous,” Caydee said. “Give him time.”
She leaned in slightly, keeping her voice soft and steady.
“You can have all the time you want, George,” she told him. “Just come out when you’re ready. We’re all cool. Even Cap. You’re really going to like living here.”
George looked at them—one by one, slow and deliberate, as if taking inventory. Then he lowered himself back down, settling into a seated position just inside the box, his body still hidden, only his face visible in the opening.
From the couch, Celia tilted her head slightly.
“How did you end up with a two-year-old cat?” she asked quietly.
Laura told the story up to the point where they had met George—Sharon, the walk through the cat area, the lack of kittens. Caydee picked up the rest from there, filling in the details of their interaction, the belly flop, the decision.
Jake listened, his expression tightening just a fraction.
“Why was he in the shelter at two years old?” he asked. That part hadn’t made it into the official briefing.
Laura hesitated just long enough to be noticed. “Uh ... nothing that’ll bother us,” she said.
Jake clicked his teeth a few times, slowly. “And ... what exactly do you mean by that?”
“He doesn’t like other cats,” Caydee said, stepping in to clarify. “Attacks them on sight. Put a few in the hospital.”
She shrugged, like it was just a quaint personality quirk.
Jake stared at her. “In the hospital?” he repeated. “And we’re bringing him into a house with children.”
“Cap can just climb to get away from him,” Caydee said. “And besides, George doesn’t attack peoples. He only attacks other cats. We don’t have any other cats. No problem.”
Jake looked over at Laura.
“But he has a history of aggressive behavior?”
“Only with cats,” Laura said. Then she gave him a small, easy smile. “And since you’re not a pussy, you have nothing to worry about.”
George rose again.
He took one cautious step out of the box, then another, his paws placing carefully on the surface of the coffee table. His eyes moved constantly, tracking the room, measuring distances, cataloging shapes and movement.
He took a few more steps and emerged completely, now standing in full view—like a witness facing a congressional subcommittee.
“That’s it, George,” Caydee said softly, sitting criss-cross-applesauce beside the table. “This is the family. You already met Mom. That’s Daddy, See-ya—she’s kind of like another mom, Yami, Kira, Sean, and Cap. Cap is my little brother. You probably had brothers once. Annoying, but okay.”
“Meeko!” Cap said.
“He’s not Meeko, he’s George!” Caydee snapped.
Being chastised by his big sister—who he absolutely worshipped—was up there with disfavoring the sacred god of pizza, or spilling chocolate milk.
“Me sowwy, Caydee!” he said quickly.
“Just call him George, butt brain. There is no freakin’ Meeko.”
“Caydee,” Laura said, “do not call your brother ‘butt brain’ unless it’s used affectionately.”
“That was affectionate,” she protested.
“It was not,” Laura said.
George chose that moment to move.
He stepped to the edge of the table and jumped down to the floor, landing lightly without hesitation. Then he walked straight to Caydee and rubbed his head against her leg.
George twirled around Caydee’s knees and back for a minute, looping her legs in a slow figure-eight, then turned to face the rest of them.
Caydee kept petting him, running her hand along his back.
“Oh my God, you’re so soft,” she said.
George’s eyes squinted in pleasure.
“We’re gonna need to put a collar on you in a little bit, George,” Caydee told him. “It has little jingle bells on it so we can hear you and it’ll be harder for you to be a sneak. Sharon told us that.”
George gave her a look that seemed to say, are you fuckin’ kidding me with that shit, mama?
“She even gave us one,” Caydee added. “She was a really nice lady. She smelled like cats and dogs though.”
George looked over the crowd again and stepped forward, leaving Caydee’s hand behind. He walked to Laura.
“Hey, Georgie-Porgie,” she said, holding out her hand. “Remember me? I was the chauffeur on your journey.”
George sniffed her fingers and then rubbed the side of his face against her hand. Laura smiled and began petting his head, and he reveled in it.
Jake watched this and felt himself start to relax.
This was not some evil hellhound they had brought into the house. It was just a cat. And he liked to be petted.
So far, so good.
But what other bad habits might he have picked up living like some Charles Dickens orphan? Was he a tweaker kind of cat? Would he steal anything that wasn’t nailed down? Would he get into the stashboxes? Was he a catnip addict?
After getting his fill of pets from Laura, George stepped away and surveyed the room again. He moved slowly, making a loose circuit, and one by one, hands extended toward him—careful, patient offerings. He paused at each, sniffing with quiet deliberation, taking in scent and history, but committing to none of them. The only one he didn’t sniff was Cap, who stood there staring at him like he’d just been handed a new toy.
“George!” Cap said.
George’s ears flicked up. He gave Cap a wide berth and continued on, his path leading him straight to Jake.
Jake stayed where he was, leaning back slightly, beer still in hand. He didn’t look down. Didn’t shift. Didn’t acknowledge the approach in any meaningful way. That was the relationship he wanted with George—coexistence, mutual non-interference, respect of boundaries, everyone staying in their lane.
George stopped in front of him and waited.
Jake kept his eyes forward.
George did not move away. He stared at Jake.
Jake refused to make eye contact.
George meowed. It wasn’t casual. It was directed. Insistent.
“For God’s sake, sweetie,” Laura said, “let him smell your hand.”
“He better not bite it,” Jake warned.
“He’s not going to bite it, Daddy. George is cool.”
“The last cat I petted bit me. I had to take antibiotics.”
“Meow,” George said without sympathy, as if saying, they cut off my fuckin’ balls, asshole. Don’t whine at me about your antibiotic shit.
Reluctantly, Jake set his beer down and held out his hand. George leaned in and sniffed. Jake could feel the cat’s breath on his fingers—fast, short, faintly cool. Then George pressed forward and rubbed the side of his head against Jake’s hand, his nose leaving a trace of moisture behind. Jake kept his hand still.
“Pet him, Daddy,” Caydee said. “That means he likes you and wants you to pet him.”
Jake hesitated for half a second, then began to make some petting motions—lightly at first, along the top of his head, then the neck. George leaned into it. Jake moved his hand along the cat’s back, then down across his flanks. He was soft. Really soft. It was ... pleasant.
And then, without warning, George fell over—standing one second, plop on the hardwood the next.
“He fell down again!” Caydee said, her voice shooting up an octave without the slightest hint of concern.
George rolled onto his back and tucked in his paws. White paws. Interesting.
“He wants you to pet his belly,” Caydee said. “It’s even softer than his back.”
“I am not putting my hand anywhere near that thing’s belly,” Jake said.
Caydee’s eyes turned dangerous. “Oh yeah?” she asked slowly.
Jake knew what card she was about to play. “No, Caydee,” he told her, shaking his head. “You can’t do that in a situation like...”
“You don’t have a hair on your ass if you don’t pet that cat’s belly,” Caydee told him.
Jake looked down at the cat for a moment. And then Jake Kingsley—rock god, a man who had never once felt the need for a cat in his life—reached down and petted George’s belly.
Caydee was right. It was softer than his back.
Jake made a late lunch while Caydee showed George around his new home.
The cat was still cautious. He would only let Caydee or Laura get within a couple feet of him before slipping just out of reach. There was no hissing, no swatting—no real aggression at all. Just quiet avoidance. It felt more like nerves than fear. He was trying to figure the place out.
Whatever his feelings about the rest of them, George seemed to trust Caydee instinctively. He actually let her pick him up. She couldn’t cuddle him, not really, but he perched on her like a strange, living accessory—front paws hooked over her shoulder, back paws dug into her waistline, his head sticking up behind her and turning slowly as he watched the world pass by.
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