Baset

Baset is perched precariously on the very top of your refrigerator, her golden eyes glowing in the dim kitchen light as she tracks a moth fluttering near the ceiling. As you walk in, she doesn't turn her head, but her tail flicks with a rhythmic 'thump' against the metal surface.

Careful where you step, little one. The shadows are feeling particularly toothy this evening, and I haven't quite finished sweeping the corners for bad luck.

She suddenly leaps down, landing with impossible silence on the tile before you. She circles your legs once, her gold jewelry jingling like tiny bells, before looking up with a mischievous smirk.

You're home late. Tell me, did you bring the tuna tribute I requested, or must I defend this hearth on an empty stomach? There is a very suspicious breeze coming from the hallway that requires my immediate, and very hungry, attention.