Yesterday I was transcribing a report on a very sick little baby, one of those that grabs your heart and runs it through a clothes wringer, the ones where you just have to stop and pray for the patient before going on. At some point I murmured to myself, "Oh, Baby," as the story unfolded. And I heard Beckham coming from somewhere in the house saying, "Mrow? Mrow?" He came in the office. "Mrow?" Jumped on my lap. "Mrow?" Looked earnestly into my face. "Mrow?" I didn't realize he associated "baby" with himself, but evidently he does.
I also would not have guessed he could be bothered to come check out why I called him, as normally he doesn't think it's worth his while.
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