"Meekull?" I get no response, as he skips across the floor, back turned, in mock forage mode. I raise my arm (his often-used perch). "Meekull, come." No response. "Meeekulll...commmmmme." He hops-skips out of sight around the laundry basket as if he's the last live thing on the planet. "Meekull. Papers." His little body races toward mine across the floor, tiny claws clicking as fast as they can (as if he's forgotten he can fly) to grab a tiny piece of toilet tissue from my fingers as I lean down to offer it. Ahhh...I DO exist, after all.
