The kitten from next door came to visit again the other day.
It's white, has weird, Bowie-like eyes that don't match, and is friendly to the two boys provided they don't turn and run, a manoeuvre likely to prompt a chase then an ambitious launch towards a landing zone of skinny legs.
How quickly squeals turn to screams.
That near-instant emotional about-face should come as no surprise to parents of small children.
Thankfully, the frequent cloudbursts are sometimes followed by periods of sunshine.
Such laughter should be bottled.
Yet that would be missing the point, wouldn't it? The mangled words and yelps of delight that cut through the morning fog are ours to keep.
The house may be on the market but the vibe that warms its walls is not for sale.
So another Father's Day looms.
Big deal.
For the past three and a-half years, I've been a father every day.
Like a few I know, I arrived at it a little later than previous generations and fortunately have not had to slog through 70-hour weeks to get by.
I also work from home (well, a sleepout cum office about 30 seconds commute from the main house), an arrangement that allows me to see my two boys more often than many dads.
Breakfast? Present.
Smoko? Present.
Lunch ... you get the idea.
Unlike some, I have the luxury of not arriving home to the chaotic treble of dinner, bath and bed.
I'm already there.
And, having already dealt with the kids a few times, I've been primed to the general trend of that day's moods (aforementioned about-faces notwithstanding).
Being of a disposition that dislikes surprises, this suits just fine; it allows a big breath to be drawn before, to paraphrase Joy Cowley, Mrs Splishy Sploshy goes wishy-washy.
Though no reference to the rituals of childbirth is intended, big breaths have often been required in the attempt to create a path for those a few decades younger than oneself.
Patience, again not an obvious trait, has improved with practice, though Snappy the Alligator does gnash his teeth from time to time in order to get the message through.
And there are so many messages: don't hit, don't fight, don't whinge, don't talk back, don't rip that ...
In such an atmosphere, Nike sloganeers would get a great workout.
Just do it? Good luck. Back to the cat.
Human-feline interaction could well be a metaphor for lifelong considerations: be gentle; don't be scared; or, if you don't like the kitten, shoo it away.
The last instruction might seem a bit black and white, but it pales in comparison to advice received as a boy, which went something like this: if confronted by a menacing group, go up to the biggest of the bunch and, well, sort him out.
Hmmm.
Though the boys might assume this led to the 30 degree slant of my nose, that has more to do with a run-in on the hockey field.
So I'll keep that one to myself this time round, despite the good example it might provide of action inviting consequence.
Such unintentional rhinoplasty could rather be presented as a trophy of sporting achievement, framed alongside the dusty photos of those who started as team-mates and turned into friends.
At three and a-half and two, neither child is old enough to digest a key tenet of fatherly advice, one that may have to wait until late adolescence or teen-time: trust others but don't be a fool (unfortunately, this will be ignored given it requires first-hand experience to sink in).
In the meantime, I'll suggest simpler terms: be good, be kind.
Or in the case of the visitor with the irregular irises, curious and crouching, it might be best to run.
Split up or operate as a team.
Ready, set, go.
They'll work it out eventually.
