Instruments of Torture

We were in bed at 6:30 on a Saturday morning, trying not to get out, when Zeb came in with his toolbox.
He announced, "I'm going to fix your feet,'' and started hammering at our toes with his little plastic hammer and sawing at our ankles.
He picked up a wrench and informed me, "This is a scab picker. It might hurt a little, but you'll be okay.''
Then he gave me the same advice I give him when he gets shots at the pediatrician: "Look at the ceiling.''
I did. It wasn't painful but I humored him, yelping, "Ow. Ow. Stop it!''
"That's okay. That's okay,'' he murmoured reassuringly.
Afterward, he doled out the perfunctory praise: "Good job. Good job, mom. All done.''
We heard his footsteps in the hallway as he strode purposefully from the room, probably to pick up our aged cat Buddy.
He holds the cat constantly, and when we tell him to please put Buddy down, he replies, "He's not wriggling yet. I put him down when he wriggles.''