It’s one of those days when you wonder if there is a coup going on at the weather HQ; different factions grabbing at the controls leaving poor old Johnny and Josephine Human not knowing if they are coming or going.
Morning came early chez IsobelandCat with the rustle of very hungry paws across the acres of mewspaper spread out across the carpets. MasterB was feeling better.
He was fine and dandy on Saturday morning, bouncing about like a good’un, demanding food with menaces, visiting the new neighbours and running about the garden. I was in and out, completing a longish list of tasks and feeling quite pleased with myself, only the stain on the bedroom carpet where MasterB threw up last Sunday refused steadfastly to yield to the array of products I introduced to it.
He was in the last time I went out, and I was surprised he ddin’t come to greet when I got back. He barely lifted his head from the sofa. Over the next hour or two he looked steadily more unwell. His fur fluffed out around his face, and he slept in an awkward hunch.
Then he got off the sofa and lay in a crouch on the floor. Cat owners will recognise the signs. One stain is already one too many, but fortunately I had the bits of the paper I had already read to hand. MasterB emptied the almost digested contents of his stomach neatly onto a few pages of broadsheet. He looked a bit wobbly, but asked to go out. I accompanied him.
Once in the garden, he didn’t seem to know what to do. So we sat for a while, then I brought him back indoors. He cried when I put a hand to his tummy, but settled down to an unhappy huddle on the sofa when I placed him there.
Hence the newspaper. I spread it as far as it would go before I went to bed.
Further proof of his recovery was his enjoyment in playing with the newspaper. He rushed at it, burrowed into it, shredded it. Homes and Gardens it was not.
So I was very glad when dawn came that it was a nice blue sky. Perfect weather for a newly healthy cat to let off steam outside. Which he did after enjoying some strenuous physical play with me. Why does my cat so love to wrestle with my arm? I tried to write and he stole my pen. He chewed my finger, hid under the turned back bedclothes waiting for me to chase him. Wonderful interactive mad and spirited stuff, a world away from the poorly boy of last night.
All morning it was lovely. It’s lovely now. But while I was out this afternoon, and fortunately for once in the car and not on foot or two wheels, the rain was lashing down. It stopped coveniently when I went to the bookshop and made friends with a delightful dog called Peggy, freshly returned from her hols in France, then pelted dow again, just seconds after I got behind the wheel again. Roads flooded in minutes. Whoever was having the tustle among the weather gods was being very heavy handed with the equipment. The whole place must have been careering about like billyho. It was the sort of thing you might expect of Caligula if he decided to try his hand at meteorology. Especially if he’d had a few snorts of cocaine first. I don’t know who’s running things this evening, but I hope they keep their place at the helm for a while. And while MasterB’s asleep, I am going to get down to some work.