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Amber loves her milks.

This is a weasel. She makes my heart happy. I love her. I tell her this frequently, but she doesn’t care. She’s too busy stashing tubes and murdering jingle toys.

At nine years old, she’s quite the old lady, but I’m pretty sure she doesn’t notice. She only seems bothered by my inadequacy as a human to better predict her desires.

I don’t know how much longer I’ll have her. Every day that she wakes and makes demands of me is a treasure.

Weasels is wonderful.