Poor Phurball

I came home with my son this afternoon. Put my purse down on the table, reached behind me to give the door a little push to close it. It swung most of the way and stopped—no noise to indicate why, it just stopped. I turned around to see what was blocking it.

There, in the doorway, stood Phurball, the door gently rebounding off his body, an expression of long-suffering exasperation on his face.

Needless to say I immediately dropped down next to him and apologized profusely, petting and fussing over him. He forgave me with a perfunctory purr, still looking exasperated: “Yes, yes, when you’ve quite finished you can open the door for me.”

Poor old man. The things he puts up with.