Little Butter Ball

When Cookie found our garden she was a skinny little thing. Compassion stirred in several hearts and was translated into cat biscuits and food sachets. Cookie blossomed, grew sleek. We began to think about monitoring her food intake. Emails were circulated asking people to tell her foster owners if and when they fed her so she did not grow too big. Not everyone was on the same page. Piles of biscuits would still be left in the garden; mounds of wet food that she had not eaten lying temptingly in MasterB’s path, distracting him from the benefits of his special diet to keep him crystal free, and the target weight he had in his sights.

But she seemed to suddenly get rounder. Chubby Chops, I called her the other day, then Little Butter Ball. Rebecca compared her to a sausage roll. It was a visitor who described her accurately; pregnant. The vet confirmed her condition this afternoon. Three or four kittens; probably conceived at Christmas time.

On my watch. Continue reading

Introducing Madame Fang

I was a bit late for my appointment with Madame Fang this morning. Moments after blithely saying I was going out on my bike under a grey but dry sky, the rain began to fall. It has that sullen determination of an uninvited guest who knows himself unwelcome, yet persists in sitting in the best chair and eating your favourite chocolates from the Christmas box open on the table.
Not being sure of the parking restrictions today, and unwilling to start the year with a fine, or worse being clamped or towed away, I set out in waterproofs and wellingtons, only to realise, just a few yards short of my destination, that the key was in the pocket of my other coat.
I splashed home and started over again.
When I let myself in, there was no sign of her. I called her name a few times, thinking she might be dozing somewhere, and sure enough she appeared, running girlishly up the stairs.

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