At a show. Stand still while you tactfully say nothing about the races held at home.
Visiting. Inspect everything. Then do it again, only faster.
In the hallway. Check how many laps fit inside the flat.
On the sofa. Lie still until something rustles somewhere.
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The Story
You put the sweater on him, adjust the purple collar, and receive the sort of look after which a tactful person would usually apologise and leave the room. He has not made a single move yet, and has already made one thing clear: you chose the stripes, you chose the pompom, and the consequences are entirely yours.
The sweater itself is soft, snug, and completely matte; the bright stripes and the multicoloured pompom look considerably more cheerful than their owner.
For the first few minutes, he wears all of it with stern self-command: he sits perfectly still, the pompom resting on his back, and you are already beginning to suspect that today there may be no race through the flat.
The scene might have lasted longer if a bag had not rustled somewhere.
At that point, the serious creature ceases to exist. Something striped shoots across the room, the pompom bouncing at every turn, the rug sliding sideways, and you manage to witness one swift lap, then a second, and the beginning of a third. Where exactly he is hurrying remains unclear: by the end of the race the goal is no nearer, but the participant looks thoroughly pleased with himself.
At last he stops and gives you the same grave look as before, as if he had not been running anywhere at all, but had spent the entire time in quiet reflection. Only the pompom is still swaying slightly.
You say nothing. After all, you also have your dignity.
Then you rustle the bag once more.
Cozy Critter Carnival. The seriousness lasted until the first rustle.
While you are reading this, he has already done three laps around the flat. The pompom has done four. Cozy Critter Carnival for cats and dogs who urgently need everything.
46,00 €
Reserved
*Colors may vary slightly depending on lighting conditions and your display settings.
You put the sweater on him, adjust the purple collar, and receive the sort of look after which a tactful person would usually apologise and leave the room. He has not made a single move yet, and has already made one thing clear: you chose the stripes, you chose the pompom, and the consequences are entirely yours.
The sweater itself is soft, snug, and completely matte; the bright stripes and the multicoloured pompom look considerably more cheerful than their owner.
For the first few minutes, he wears all of it with stern self-command: he sits perfectly still, the pompom resting on his back, and you are already beginning to suspect that today there may be no race through the flat.
The scene might have lasted longer if a bag had not rustled somewhere.
At that point, the serious creature ceases to exist. Something striped shoots across the room, the pompom bouncing at every turn, the rug sliding sideways, and you manage to witness one swift lap, then a second, and the beginning of a third. Where exactly he is hurrying remains unclear: by the end of the race the goal is no nearer, but the participant looks thoroughly pleased with himself.
At last he stops and gives you the same grave look as before, as if he had not been running anywhere at all, but had spent the entire time in quiet reflection. Only the pompom is still swaying slightly.
You say nothing. After all, you also have your dignity.
