The newest member of the family, whose name has been shortened to "Siz," is a flatulent little creature, one of the silent-but-deadly persuasion. It seems to be worse lately, and I suspect it's because he's been eating the dog's food more than his own. Purr-motor on overdrive, he will lovingly weave himself around your legs and drop an invisible bomb. He'll be gone before you ever know you were attacked. He is indiscriminate, leaving clouds of noxious fumes anywhere he chooses. (Word to the wise: don't ever pick him up by his belly.)
Last night Braeden was on the receiving end of the torture. "Mommy, he stinks!"
"Yes, he is rather smelly tonight. Why do you think he poots so much?" I asked, knowing whatever answer he came up with would be amusing, to say the least.
"Well, I'll just tell you. He got runned over by a stunk!"
In Braeden-ese, "stunk" means "skunk." I had a brief visual of our little yellow tomcat being plowed over by Pepe LePew, and decided Braeden's explanation was right on target!