So, Ashbutt went off to the vet to get tutored.
When I picked him up, the surgery discharge instruction sheet had combine spaying and neutering, canines and felines. So the instructions included "If you let your pet outside to eliminate, keep them on a short leash" and "no energetic activity. No climbing or jumping. No running." etc.
The mental image of Ashbutt outside on a short leash was hilarious. But no climbing or jumping? I looked down into the wide, stoned eyes of anesthia-recoving kitten, and went, "Yeah, right."
The next day, the vet tech called to check on him. "How is Ashbottom doing?" (There's a nice older lady who works there who just can't bring herself to say "butt", so he's Ashbottom in their files. Eh, doesn't worry me, makes them happy, whatever.)
"Well, so far he woke me up by attacking the feet under covers, has chased springs all over the house, ambushed all ankles and the older cat multiple times, swarmed up the cat tree and knocked everything off the mantel, attacked any reachable hand, pounced on the older cat from the back of the couch, and that yowl and hiss you hear is the very cranky older cat up on the guest bed, trying to beat the stuffing out of him as he keeps reaching up and batting at her."
The vet tech finally stopped laughing, and said, "So he's doing fine."
"I'm pretty sure he... Ashbutt! Feet are for walking, not chewing on! Get off!" A pause, as I shook him off. "Go find a spring or something!"
"Yep, he's fine."