Toby Hooper glared at Barnaby Lestrade in disgusted dismay.
His favourite spot to sleep was now occupied by a miniature wriggling human kitten.
"She's not THAT bad of a kitten," Barnaby communicated defensively with a meow. "She's rather warm to curl up against, if you'd stop being a curmudgeonly old git."
"Please, don't be an idiot Barnaby," Toby sniffed, scowling. He took a swipe at his face for emphasis.
"I'm not an idiot, Tobe," the younger cat indicated, turning his face to sniff at Toby's cheek, then taking a tentative lick at it with his tongue.
"Oh, STOP sucking up," Toby protested. "And you've missed a spot. Idiot."
"Mangy old fleabag," Barnaby simply huffed, as he stalked off to the baby's room. "You fart like a bloody Clydesdale too."
Toby stared after the silver tabby. The old ginger cat would never admit it, but he didn't mind the new cot occupant as much as he implied.
When Toby reached the room, he gracefully jumped up into the cot. Barnaby had already curled himself up against the tiny sleeping form, purring with warm, cozy contentment.
Toby was silent as he curled himself gently around the feet of the newest member of their family, unable to stop purring himself.
He supposed, after all, there really was something to be said about human babies.