Lately, no matter where Young Old happens to catch some shut-eye, there's Frisco, watching over him. She's become very protective of him, running to me meowing whenever the Young One is crying in his crib. There's a bond here, people.
Young Old, future freedom fighter. Kalashnikov not pictured.
Very typical of The Boy. We take him out and about to experience something new, such as the Saturday Market here in Portland, and he falls asleep for the duration of the trip. This is probably a good thing during those recent excursions to the strip club and the opium den.
Young Old's new throne, from which he impatiently demands his slaves to feed his face with convalescent home leftovers.
A face only a progenitor could appreciate, and even then, it's a bit of a stretch. For the love of God, why does all baby food have to look like the contents of a baby's colon? Hmmm, maybe there's a business idea here..."Recycled Food Co., From the Colon to the Cup." On second thought, that's just nasty.
Young Old hanging out with his new pal Finn and Finn's Mama Katie.
Mama K walked in from work one day to this scene, the likely result of an exhausting game of peek-a-boo.
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