Icon from a picrew by grgikau. Call me Tir or Julian. 37. He/They. Queer. Twitter: @tirlaeyn. ao3: tirlaeyn. 18+ Only. Star Trek. The X-Files. Sandman. IwtV. OMFD. Definitionless in this Strict Atmosphere.
Dearborn likes to sit where the bedroom hallway meets the entry hallway, because she can see me at my office desk and also almost all of the condo from there, except for the Evil Kitchen which she hates anyway. It used to be she’d sit there watching me, and if I got up to walk into the living room or to the kitchen she’d leap up and run ahead of me, clearly concerned with being stepped on.
But she’s five now, and simply refuses to be intimidated into moving. I walk up to the hallway juncture and she just sits there like “Answer my riddles three, Dad, if that’s your real name.”
My little sphinx, you weigh less than a six-pack of Diet Coke. You’re lucky you’re cute.
[ID: Two photographs of Dearborn the Tortie, in the same place and position: lying sphinxlike, front paws in front of her, head up to look at me, on the edge of a rug at the t-junction where the bedroom hallway meets the main hall of the condo. In the first, the hallway is shown clearly; in the second Dearborn is in close-up, looking past the camera, contemplative, immovable. Until her Dad picks her up and she yells because she hates being carried.]
