Dogs and Cats

How we got our cats

Although we have always loved her, Gizmo, our small, black cat, had a traumatic life, coming as she did from a single parent home. She arrived in our lives when Horace turned seven, a guilt present because I had split up with Horace’s dad. We already owned/were owned by, Ben, a brown tabby with a demanding personality, who peed in the toilet, and had a steel pin in his leg – the result of an argument with a car.

So, about Horace’s birthday preparations – it’s a bit of a shaggy cat story, I’m afraid. Horace and I crawled in the car through narrow country lanes to seek out an eccentric cat lady, recommended by a local. From a kitchen writhing with, and stinking of felines of all designs and ages, Horace selected a tiny patchwork scrap, the smallest and weakest-looking one there. This handful of fluff was not yet ready to leave home so we left, and I agreed to collect it on the morning of Horace’s birthday.

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Slip Slidin’ Away

Apparently I’m ranting too much and need to retrieve my sense of humour, so here is my nod at levity.

One reason for my grumpiness could be an impending, significant birthday. Well, it’s not so much the birthday as the physical defects that accompany it. My back aches when I garden, my hips give me gyp when I walk, and so on. Not that I’m grumbling, well, I’m trying not to, it’s just that the other day I got stuck in the bath.

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I should know better by now

Crikey, I haven’t written here at all this year. It’s not that nothing has happened, more that too many things have prevented me from putting text on screen. Today however I have been moved to write. Something happened that illustrates a) how bad I am at keeping my mouth (fingers) shut, and b) how little thought people give to what they are posting on social media.

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