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.