The Flying Game ('game' is sort of an arbitrary designation, it's just me zooming Fuss around the house making whooshing sounds) has been evolving lately.
First he wanted to flap his arms and fly like a bird, which necessitated switching up my grip so his arms were loose.
This morning Green Buenie got hung up on one of his feet during takeoff, so now "a-hold it with my peets!" is an integral part of the pre-flight checklist.
The games get more baroque over time until he loses interest.
Perhaps the sheer weight of ornament finally collapses his enthusiasm?
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