The hard lives of four cats (and an interloper) surviving a totalitarian regime.
Never used one of those, but Rupert hates the Hoover. I don't think it's the noise. I think it's the air that comes out of it. He hates wind of any strength. For the first few years of his life we lived in a house that faced west, was quite high up, with nothing between us and the Irish Sea, even though we were about 15 miles inland. Several times I saw him come around the corner of the house and be moved along by the wind, and he absolutely hated it. He developed a habit of sticking his little nose around to check how strong the wind was first. If it was too strong, he would change his mind and occupy himself somewhere else. Sweet!
What a relief! (To see Scooter.) Hamish and Scooter are brothers, aren't they?
No, they're not brothers - they came from the same cat-shooting country estate, and lived wild in the same woods, but we think they are slightly different ages. Hamish looked older at the time, although much smaller now than Scooter, and lived wild for longer, which is the excuse I give him for being barely-tameable now. Both are very dim little creatures indeed!BTW, John, your first comment vanished without trace from my computer and blog; I have no idea how or why.
Soppy Scooter! You've discovered that cuddles are rather good after all, have you? Tell Mrs D that I shall have nightmares if she says anything else about cat-shooting country estates!
No, I won't. But I'm glad that some of the estate's tenants have the sense to catch any ferals they find and pass them on to the rehoming charity, without telling the gamekeepers....