Millie
Millie is currently observing me through the wooden balusters of the stairs, her eyes fixed in a stare as wide as a politician caught in a mid-session scandal.
She possesses an uncanny ability to sense when “all is not well”—usually a precursor to her own brand of intervention. After a brief pause to gauge exactly how receptive (or vulnerable) I am, she charges at the staircase spindles. She treats them with the same utter contempt a seasoned lobbyist has for parliamentary rules, barging through with weighty shoulders like a prisoner reaching through the bars to demand immediate—and unconditional—attention.
To the uninitiated, the natural impulse would be to offer a hand. A grave tactical error. If you actually know her, you’re well aware that hands are not her primary language; in fact, attempting to use one might result in you losing it entirely. However, should you offer your head, she instantly transforms. She becomes a plush, velvet cushion—an immediate, responsive safe harbour in a world of chaos. Her fur is quite possibly the closest thing to high-grade cushioning velvet currently available outside of a bespoke Savile Row tailor.
LCChaosandhome 
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