There he’d be, standing on the porch, peering in eagerly through the glass, head bobbing, body flicking, ready to bolt if I turned too quickly. Cheery voiced, I’d say, “Get up on the table!”, looking him in the eye with a twinkle in mine.
Darned if he wasn’t sitting, cute as a button, on the porch table, when I returned, toasted, peanut butter smeared, English muffin in hand. Held it out steadily, not too close, and he would reach, reach, reach, stretching to the point of teetering, and snatch it. After weeks of grab and dash, and me chit, chit, chittering with my teeth and lips, he learned to pause a bit, so I could watch his tiny tongue flicking over the peanut butter. I can go for an outside pet.
Gone though now. Hide and hair.