Lev squeals in surprise, and bats at the third bahamulet with his stick, trying to get it away from Wilson's head without redirecting it towards himself or towards, say, any other part of Wilson. The bahamulet seizes upon the walking-stick; plastic grinds on wood and Lev winces at the sound.

Lev freezes, the stick held out at an awkward angle, the rubber tip periliously close to Wilson's temple. The bahamulet is hanging on for grim life, making little growing noises and wiggling. It looks nothing quite as much as a terrier what found something it thinks is a large, strangely-shaped rat.

"I beg thy pardon," Lev says, in a small voice. "I'm like, no good with dogs. I'm a cat person, nu?"