KAT
Two Weeks
Applesauce drips from the kitchen ceiling in fat, lazy drops while Takeshi wages war against the spoon. Two weeks old and my sons have discovered gravity is negotiable when you have claws and absolutely no impulse control. The homemade batch Holly brought this morning—organic apples from Uncle Hiro's impossible orchard—now decorates every surface within a three-foot radius of Takeshi's custom high chair.
"Just eat it, you little demon." Exhaustion makes my voice crack as I dodge another paw swipe that sends applesauce flying toward the window. His black fur mats with the stuff, tiny pink tongue working to lick what he can reach, which isn't much given the limitations of puppy flexibility.
Akira watches from his own chair with gray eyes that track everything, calculating t
