MasterB had become a cat transformed. His inner sabre toothed tiger had emerged. He glared at me with pupil large round eyes and made threatening guttural sounds. I had a feeling that he might take matters further, so I spoke to him sternly, and took the toy away.
Honestly, it’s only a few feathers on the end of a fishing pole, but it sends him wild. This is a new one. The old one, much mended, is on das Boot, where it doesn’t generate anything like this level of excitement and aggression.
Why should it be that this gets him going so? When I take it away I have to hide it, or he finds it and hunts it again. Then I have to change the hiding place or he starts obsessing about a particular cupboard. Continue reading
Since I came home after my ten days in Northern Ireland MasterB has been both affectionate and demanding. The cat sitter played with him a great deal, and he is keen that I live up to her standards.
It’s under here
Look, no paws
My list of tasks today has been disrupted by an active MasterB who has made it abundantly and vocally clear that he wants to play.
On a cold night, running up and down the stairs playing catch and throw with the cat is a good way to get warm, but a bad way to cook supper.
Like Cat before him, MasterB has a fondness for interactive games, and a bit of chair tennis, with me in a subservient position throwing him silver paper and so on so he can practise his leaps and lobs, is a favourite.
Sometimes he needs a bit of a rest between bouts.