As I’ve said before, I’m not going to turn this into a ‘mommy’ blog’, but I have to tell you about the cats.
First of all, there’s Alex. No real problems there. Tom cat. Supremely confident. Gorgeous. Struts about like he owns the place. Just one thing: that cat can churn out a turd that the middle-sized mongrel would be proud of. And the smell!
The problem is Misty, who’s about eighteen years old. She hasn’t quite settled in yet. She lives under the bed. Oh, she’ll come to the edge and allow one to stroke her and she purrs like a motorboat, but for the last two weeks, she’s lived under the bed.
This means that the facility herinafter referred to as ‘The Cat Litter Tray’ also resides under the bed. The same facility made use of by aforementioned Alex in which to deposit the monster turd of fame and odour. Yes, well. Whew!
I keep telling Misty that she could be queen of the household, that I’ll worship her as befits a cat and kowtow to her every wish, but she just stays under the bed with the cat litter tray. It reminds me of the story of the eagle that lived with chickens and just pecked around on the ground refusing to fly.
Not that she can fly, but she could be on the bed rather than under it, and if she’d show willingness to explore the house I could move that darned cat litter!
No pics of the cats yet. I don’t want to scare them with the flash.So instead, you get Ginger and Jemima, the farm cats.