"You can't possibly mean to bring those things home with us?"

Against all odds, Q has behaved himself, but in twenty minutes the forty eight tribbles squeezed together in the dog carrier will be three hundred and thirty six tribbles, and he'd rather hoped for them to make that number in Chekov's front room, surrounded by astounded Starfleet officers and one very disgruntled part Klingon.

Now they'd be all over his apartment.