Sometimes when she sleeps, which is what she does mostly, she cradles her head in the crooks of her paws. It looks like she’s dreaming about something that’s gone terribly wrong.
She yells at me when she wants to play fetch and then, when she’s tired of playing, sits on the ball so I can’t get at it.
She loves the faucet and hates the vacuum cleaner. Turn on the faucet, she appears. Turn on the vacuum, she disappears. It’s magic.
Though leash trained, she almost never walks anywhere in a straight line.
When the madness is upon her, she tries to kill me. Then, after I’m dead, she falls asleep curled up beside me in the reading chair.
She stares unblinkingly into my eyes. Sometimes for so long that I’m forced to look away.
Her own eyes change color.
She’s a good driving companion.
When we have shrimp for dinner, she does a celebratory dance.
She has a head voice, a chest voice and a tribble voice. The chest voice is for emergencies. It’s frightening.
She’s tidy in her person and never knocks anything over by accident. She does, however, push things over ledges intentionally. Then she looks at me as if to say, “That. Was. Amazing.”
Video: Acadia just hanging out