The danger with living with Ritchie Ryan, Duncan MacLeod soon realized, was that the young man's tendency to bring home strays didn't end with people—it merely began and spiraled madly out of control from there. If the boy had gone on a ride on a day off, the first question before Tessa shoved him off to the bathroom to wash up for dinner was:
"What species and how many?"
"Mac, why do you think just because I've been out all day that I-
Mew. Mew. From a pocket inside his heavy, battered riding jacket.
"Just one-
Maaaoooo!
"...A few?" And that's when he'd give Macleod that look, an expression so puppy-ish that Tessa would scowl coldly at him if Mac put his foot down, and there would be a small tiff about it after dinner while Ritchie sulked in his room, a dejected, adolescent Saint Francis of Assisi. It was a staring contest that Ducan always lost.
"Clean up and they stay in your room." He would relent, and Ritchie's whole world would brighten, blue eyes glittering and a light, childish grin on his lips. "You're the best, and I'll be right back!"
Dinner on these nights would always begin with Tessa asking where he found the latest batch of strays and pursing her lips, distressed when she heard the answer. That Duncan didn't mind so badly, because it was her most adorable expression—he just wished it didn't have to come at the expense of kitten formula, feeding bottles and the occasional flea bath for the entire household.