Left to myself, I’d be in bed right now, probably asleep, possibly still reading; teeth cleaned, face creamed, pyjamaed and cosy.
I was working this evening and got home shortly before eleven. Himself was pleased to see me.
I thought he might like to go out. So did he. But when I came in, so did he. He wanted to play. With me. These pictures aren’t from the past hour but they could have been.
Now I love my cat. Anyone who reads this blog knows I love my cat. I am pleased and flattered that a game with me is high on his list of Favourite Things To Do. But an hour of playing? A whole hour, at this time of night?
I threw toys for him to leap at and catch; rolled the tennis ball so he could cover it and kill it; waggled the feather thing; hid the feather thing under the rug; retrieved silver paper from beneath the sofa.
Finally, at midnight he thought he’d go out.
I reckon it was because I had issued an ultimatum: Out, or Bed. He chose out. I told him he has half an hour.
So now I am going to clean my teeth and do all those other things, and hope that when he comes in, he thinks having a sleep is a good idea.
Just who is in charge around here? That’s what I want to know.