The Little King has a number of thrones in the living room, most of them close to the woodstove fire. He likes to be up high, preferably on a mound of blankets or other clothing (mine, usually) and he burrows in like a weasel and goes to sleep.

If he can find a lap, Maria’s preferably, he goes there. If I have a blanket on my lap on a cold night, he gives it a shot. If I tell him to get lost, he does and will find another throne.

The living room is full of them. Every one is his.