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“Well, she can have all the potatoes she wants,” George picks up a hashbrown from the skillet and bends down to give it to Patches, “it won’t hurt her.”
“You’re spoiling her, George,” Dream complains, even as he bends down to scoop her from the floor, “I just put food in her bowl.”
“Oh, I’m the one spoiling her. You make sure she only eats one brand of cat food that’s, like, ludicrously expensive.”
Dream looks at him and pouts, cradling a disgruntled Patches to his chest. Dream is the only one she mildly tolerates holding her. “But she’s my baby.”
Baby.
Really, he doesn’t know why that word trips him up now. They both call Patches their baby frequently. But something about the domesticity of the entire morning does him in.
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