Every time Grendel tries to go from room to room, 'Wee One' who will from here on be referred to as 'Thuggy McBastard' has a go at her. They've not actually come to blows yet, but while the little fuzzy lady of the household is hiding upstairs in the junk of the house move (four years ago and the landing is still full of unpacked boxes -- Christ knows what's actually in them, probably all those vital things we can never find, but are sure we've got somewhere. Like the sushi mats I bought for making artistic creations in raw fish. Mmm, sushi... -- nothing like it**), TMcB has ensconces herself in the lounge, on the sofa, where she looks so bloody smug it's unbelievable. Seriously: she's like a politician who's shagging his mistress, three Filipino house boys, and a goat, while snorting cocaine off a dead hooker's backside -- but the tabloid papers can't touch him due to some sort of incriminating evidence he has over the editor. Which is pretty damn smug.
Part of me wants Grendel to stand up to her and batter that greasy grin off her face, but most of me wants her to steer well clear and not get into any fights that'll require me to make Interloper Cat Pie.
Ziggy, on the other hand, is fairly trouble-free as far as aggressive behaviour goes. But she will not shut up. All the time with the feline shouting. Shout, shout, shout, shout, shout. Lots of purring too -- she sounds like a faulty hammer drill, trying to bore its way through a small person's kneecap -- but mostly shouting.
* Seriously: this is nothing like domestic harmony.
** Well, the stuff we make is 'superficially' like it. I mean, it looks like sushi. A proper Japanese Gourmet would probably run in abject terror from the stuff, but we like it.