This is Chester. Hiding.
He is the proverbial ‘scaredy cat’.
He is in hiding, buried at the back of the shelving in our walk-in robe, one of the few places he thinks the grandchildren don’t know about.
Think again, Chester!
He pays scant regard to the fact he moults hair all over our clothes.
Efforts to fill the hole have been met with stiff resistance, the ‘blockage’ finding its way to the floor.
A bit like the blankets he doesn’t like on his bed.
Chester is 16 years old. He has had a tumultuous relationship with my grandchildren, who, at first, wanted to terrorize him, and now, older and wiser, want to make friends with him.
Sorry, no can do. You had your chance.
He’s warming to the 15-year-old. Perhaps because she is as tall as us, he is confused.
Her efforts to get him to sleep on the end of her bed have failed.
Perhaps we should switch beds, and I might win that battle after all.