If it is happy, it can be gentler and kinder than anyone else: rub your legs with your body, stretch out your neck for you to scratch, or jump on the table while you are writing and poke a few small clubs on the manuscript paper. It will also call various cavities with different lengths, thicknesses and variations. When it doesn't bark, it will purr to amuse itself. It all depends on its happiness. If it is unhappy, it won't say a word no matter how many good words others say.
It is afraid of everything and always wants to hide. But it is so brave, let alone dare to hit a snake when it sees bugs and mice.
Kittens with full moons are cuter. My legs and feet are still unstable, but I have learned to be naughty. A chicken feather and a ball of thread are their good toys, and they play endlessly. When they play, they don't know how many somersaults they will fall, but as soon as they fall, they immediately get up, run and fall again. Their heads hit the door, the legs of the table and each other's heads, and they didn't cry when they were in pain. Their courage is getting bigger and bigger, and they are gradually opening up new game places. They came to the yard: the flowers in the yard were badly damaged. They wrestled in flowerpots and swung with branches. When they passed by, branches broke and flowers fell. When you see them, you can never beat them. They are so lively and innocent.