Abbey, seen here with my father, who is carrying her around in a wicker basket because, well, she let him, loves to be lifted into the air. In fact, the current object of her undying love and affection is a box top I brought portfolios home in. Now that it's empty, she will sit in that thing and look up at me with those giant kitten eyes until I do one of two things:
(1.) Hook my finger in a corner and slide that box top--at a very fast pace--from one end of the room to another
(2.) Heft the box top up and balance it on my right palm, then carry it around the apartment like it is a waitress tray. Abbey stays inside the whole time, her chin hanging over the edge, her eyes soaking in what all of her stuff looks like from people height. When I told my father this the other night, he said, "But doesn't she jump out?" And the answer to that is no. She'd ride around on top of my shoulder for hours if I let her.