Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness...
This understanding is not based on my careful observation of the colours of the leaves, or the shortening of the days, but on the resident felines' previously unwonted commitment to snuggling up on me at night.
I have had cats all my life. I am wise to their ways. It takes more than some pretty purring to convince me that I am being snuggled up to because they love me. It is my firm belief that I am being snuggled up to because I am warm. That I am, in point of fact, being shamelessly exploited as the world's largest hot water bottle!
I am also prone to being shamelessly exploited as The Brunt Of All Blame. And not just by Pop.
Bertie wandered into my bedroom at 5.15 this morning, shouting his displeasure at being soaking wet. To prove just how wet he was, he rubbed his flank against my bare leg. He was right: he was wet. He then proceeded to leave muddy paw prints on my duvet, before settling down to dry off in a particularly absorbent area.
Now, given that
- to the best of my knowledge, no-one actually held a gun to his head and forced him out through the cat flap; and
- he has a perfectly good litter tray indoors for lavatorial emergencies
I believe I have some justification for feeling aggrieved that he couldn't just have been damp quietly on his own for another hour or so. Particularly given that he had already woken me up in the middle of the night when he decided that it was his turn for the human hot water bottle, and that he would need to beat Caspar up in order to get the best and warmest spot.