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Sasha has a way with the boys, Mac and Willoughby. She's normally very reserved and doesn't tolerate any undue familiarity. But occasionally she gets in a playful mood, and woe betide the little hairy varmint critter who doesn't want to play.
The first either of them is aware it's playtime is when she races by at about Mach-3 and playfully knocks their ears up on top of their head. And she'll keep that up until they respond. Then it's Chase and Tag and Wall of Death and Catch the Cat and all these fine games involving both Mac and Willoughby. And they all have a lot of fun; at least, until Sasha decides she's had enough. Unilaterally. Instantly she is back to her touch-me-not phase and the boys find out the hard way what females are really like. Imagine Cruella DeVille with a bad case of PMS.
They were at it hot and heavy a few minutes ago, racing and. . .so forth. Sasha jumped on the bed and ran under the sheets with Mac in hot pursuit, Code 3. I saw the first lump run to the middle of the bed, then suddenly stop. The second, larger lump came bounding up to the first lump, and all Hell broke loose. Judging by the way the sheets were bouncing around and the accompanying sound effects, Sasha slapped poor Mac crosseyed. He turned and ran back out into the open and stood there barking furiously.
Sasha put up with that for about ten seconds, then slowly stalked to the edge of the bed, stuck her head out from under the sheets, bared her fangs, and hisspit. Once. Mac decided he had more important business elsewheres and joined a very wide-eyed and alert Willoughby on the couch. Sasha grumbled and growled herself to sleep, ears back all the while.
Interesting afternoon.
Editor's note:
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