Greg pulled the covers back carefully, so as not to disturb Molly in her slumber. Taking a deep breath, then moving as quietly as he could, he stretched his waking muscles as he stood.
He rubbed his face, scratching at his stubble, as he reached for his dressing gown and stepped into his slippers. Running his hand through his pillow-mussed, (and, frankly, Molly-mussed) hair, he glanced down, squinting at the carpet.
What the hell was that anyway?
Oh, no. Not again. Another one had bitten the dust, apparently.
Greg bent down, studying the bits of white fluff on the floor. Raising an eyebrow with an exasperated huff, he followed what was turning into a familiar trail of crumbs.
For as much as he loved the kitten Molly had given to him for his birthday, the young feline was at a stage where he would literally play with anything, and everything, with fierce glee and wanton destruction. Nothing was sacred - nothing at all.
"Bollocks," Greg muttered, frowning. "That was the last bloody one too." The small silver tabby gazed haughtily up at him as if to say, "What?", as he lounged in the midst of the fluffy, white, shredded ruins of what had been Greg's last roll of toilet paper.
He glared at the young feline. "Ah, damnit, Barnaby."