Fast forward a few weeks and Frank was starting to grow. He was consuming everything in sight, including Bill's food. A sideways name change to 'Dyson' was mulled over, after all, he sucked up everything, needed constant emptying and was crap on stairs.
Kittens aren't supposed to eat big cat food but if you tried to stop him he would growl while continuing to chew. He might have sounded like a didgeridoo sped up but the eating never stopped. No he didn't have worms, just a poop factory in overdrive. When he wasn't eating he was gnawing. Fingers were and still are a particular favourite. The pain of having your digits being used as pin cushions to surgical grade fangs was offset by his boyish good looks and general kitten dappyness.
It was about this time that he hit 'maximum cute'. Brace yourself!
The stairs were still yet to be mastered but this climbing thing was fun. Scaling a big bed or sofa with tiny paws was hard work though so well deserved cuddles and naps were taken at the summit.
Frank's life was just a continual cycle of eat, sleep and move for a bit. You'd swear he was student. The litter tray certainly smelt like a second years toilet. It even had empty cans of Red Stripe and Breaker up one end. The booze would also explain the falling over and bumping into things. Come to think of it, his meows sounded a lot like "kebab". One things for sure, Frank couldn't take his ale. A "yer maa bezz mate" would quickly turn into a scrap with Bill and then back again before you could say "leave it Bill, he's not worth it!". For the time being Bill was safe on the rocking chair out of Frank's way. It wouldn't be long though before this sanctuary wasn't safe.