Where have we been?

Hiding, that's where. Hibernating. All this snow is not what we like, so we stay inside. Rachel keeps the house nice and warm for us, and mostly we lie around on furniture. Not an interesting life, but what else is there to do?

Today was a bit special, for some reason.

Presents, nice dinner, toys and treats. There was lots of paper, just what Scooter loves most.

He and Millie had a little argument about who should get into the bag with all the wrapping paper from the presents.

Millie won.

Millie also won a little argument with Flossie about the wrapper that went round some silly toy.

Millie always wins.

Even I had a little play inside one of the bags.

And Hamish hid upstairs all day because the Lovely Son is here. Don't ask. We don't understand Hamish either.

Rachel says we should wish you all a Happy Christmas. We would like to wish you lots of treats and toys and wrapping paper too!

What a difference a year (with Hamish) makes

Dec. 9th 2009

It depends who you ask.

Hamish:

I've grown big and sturdy. I eat with the others. I jump on Mrs Danvers' bed - when she's in it! - and pounce on her toes. Sometimes I let her stroke me if it's in the middle of the night and she isn't sitting up. I might even purr and drool a little, or I might run away. I walk on the yard walls. I tolerate the dogs. I go bravely into every room in the house.

I am even more beautiful than when I arrived a year ago today. Mrs Danvers is privileged to have me in her house, eating her food, playing with her toys, and messing up her back yard flowerbeds cat trays.  She does not seem to be aware of how honoured she is; she expects servility and soppiness! Foolish misguided woman.

Rachel (rudely referred to as Mrs Danvers):

He's grown because he eats surreptitiously during the night when no one sees him; at least he now shares the same bowls as the others. He plays on my bed, so long as we pretend the pounced-on toes aren't mine, and he flees if I sit up or let on that I've noticed him. He is terrified of the hoover, and extends this terror to poor tender-hearted Margery, who wields it.

He spends most of his life sleeping, tucked discreetly behind a chair upstairs. He looks balefully at me then runs away whenever I enter a room. He chirrups, rolls and rubs against Lottie, and mostly hangs out with Scooter, who could be a lot friendlier to humans without Hamish's bad example, but he makes it plain that - mostly - I am The Enemy; that's when I'm not being The Servant.

I have rarely stroked him, have never picked him up, and as for that fantasy of having him sit next to me on the sofa - well, pah! it won't be happening soon.

He is very bonny, though, with glowing orange fur that lights up a room. I love him, but think of him as a decorative addition to the household rather than a pet. An addition that snubs me, despises my efforts on his behalf, and makes it very plain that he is not grateful in the least.

Happy First Anniversary, Hamish! The Servant will be serving celebratory sardines for dinner. No need to say thank you.

December 2010

Snowbound

So what do we do all day, now that we can't possibly set paw outside the back door?

We keep ourselves amused.

We find sunny spots in which to lie.

We play.

We fight amongst ourselves.

We help with the ironing.

We hang out with the dogs.

Rachel says we eat far too much for such couch potatoes. She says we're getting tubby.

We wonder if we should diet. 

But then we remember: we need our fat reserves.... 

... we're in semi-hibernation after all.