This is so James’s fault.

He was wandering around singing “I am the smallrus!”

“How big is a smallrus?” I asked.

“Very, very tiny.”


“They’re bred as sock warmers. You can put your socks on the smallri to keep warm.”


“They purr.”


And just when I was thinking that I had misjudged this man for ten whole years, that he was capable of great depths of adorableness, that his capacity for cuteness was far beyond anything I’d guessed, and he’d merely been hiding it behind a facade of mild pervesion and non-sequitor–

“And they’re great with honey-mustard sauce!”


As my friend Kathy said, “He is capable of great flights of whimsy, you just can’t listen all the way to the end.”

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