Keets and a laser pointer.
Problem one: Keets are super-delicate babies and must be protected.
Problem two: Keets are as hyper as all get out in rainy weather.
Problem three: Keets can climb, but they’re not that great at getting down safely.
Problem four: they’re suicidally curious and have worked out how to open the playroom door.
Keri had to keep them under constant supervision and off the shelving and occupied until the grownups came back.
And, as further trouble, the usual array of kidvids didn’t seem to capture their gnatlike attentions. Neither did any of the approved toys. They were bored out of their little gourds and had cabin fever to boot.
Then she remembered how she kept the kittens away from Mom and Ms Ri’ki. In a fit of half-crazed, sleep-deprived genius, Keri got the trinkets jar down and unearthed the laser pointer.
Silence. Ominous, heart-stopping silence. Anne rushed to the playroom door and sneaked it open.
One pre-teen child, deep in slumberland and the pillows of the hammock. Leg dangling awkwardly at an uncomfortable angle.
And in the nest-bed opposite, one, two, three… all four of Ri’ki’s keets. All snuggled up together under the warming blanket.
All alive, whole, and -yes- breathing.
Anne nearly jumped out of her skin. “Hi, darling. How was keet-sitting?”
“Hectic until I busted out the laser pointer.”
“Ran ‘em around until they ran out of puff,” Keri grinned. Then yawned. “And I’m still on ten percent battery. Can I go to my bed?”
“Yeah, go for it. The grownups can keep an eye on the keets, now.“
Keri sighed and lurched towards her room like a half-conscious zombie.
Laser pointers. They really did work on any creature with a small attention span.