Critters. Fur babies. They call them many names, but at the heart of it, pets are essentially your children, especially couples who havent got real children or whose kids have flown the coop. We have a wee pussie cat. She is from the mean streets of London, and experienced it all, abuse as a kitten resulting in a crooked tail, a pregnancy in her teens and a drinking habit. No wait, she doesnt have a drinking habit but prefers drinking her water out of brimming pint glasses (or ponds, yeech). I wonder who and where she picked that up from, or maybe the pint is such an ingrained English thing, there was no way to escape it!?
She is pretty cute, despite being fairly brown coloured, a mackrel Tabby – the absoloute standard colouring for cats, but we love her in spite of this, or may be because of it!
She is now fixed, living the life of Riley, with her double (human-sized) bed (that she occasionally allows visitors to borrow a side of, but only on the understanding that it’s hers whenever she wants it back, and no, the brown fur on the pillows certainly isn’t hers, and if you don’t like it, you shouldn’t leave them there for just anyone to happen to lay on.)
Even puss is getting into the Olympic spirit, getting up to all sorts of gymnastics in the night since the flame was lit, culminating last night in the long jump. You know, to cover the distance from me to hubby sleeping. Any mere mortal would stroll it, but not our beast, giving it her 110% in true English Football hooligan fashion. All I saw was her shadow and felt her push with those mightily sprung back legs, before with the strength of a kangaroo she bounded onto hubbys chest, all of about 2 feet away. Well played puss, well played. Except it was more like the high jump. Her excuse for the poor performance will no doubt be something along the lines of ‘It was only the preliminaries, I’m conserving my energy for the finals’
|It’s a Cat’s Life.|
Today’s Workout: Rest day, interrupted by a bout of cat gymnastics…