Lady Voledoomcat, who celebrates her official birthday at Easter, will be ten this year. Like the Queen, she has a private birthday and an official birthday. We gave her the official birthday because we reckoned she was about six weeks old when we got her one June and that she would have been spawned (or whatever it is that mother cats do to get kittens) around Easter that year. Since her private birthday is her own secret – we have asked, but she isn’t telling – we have decided that her official birthday is stuck to and migrates around the calendar with Easter.
Being a spring kitten, there is something of the young cat that comes out in her behaviour this time every year. Today she can’t keep still and has been beating the bewhatsit out of a rug in the living room. She goes from room to room squeaking and mewing, which is quite unlike her because she is usually a very quiet old mog, if a most attentive one.
It’s a pleasure to see the vigour and vim in her because many other cats of her age are starting to let their tummies drag on the ground, that is when they can be arsed to haul themselves out of their favourite armchairs and fill their faces with more food. Even as I write this I can hear her attacking some soft furnishings in the next room!
The Queen of the Chooks is not an ailurophile by nature, but this little mog has softened her heart to her own personality. I have to admit to being very soft on cats, being of that class of humanity who cannot walk past a cat without stopping to say hello and clap the beast on the back. In saying this, you must understand that clap in Scots means to stroke or smooth rather than smack or strike with the hand! I am also a great believer that what every cat secretly yearns for is to have their tummies stroked, even when they pretend to protest. Lady V is a tabby who appears almost green in the right light and disappears into her camouflage when in the garden, but she has the most gorgeous, soft and tawny tum, which is a magnet for her old dad, I have to admit.
Anyway, enough of this sentimental twaddle. I must away and do other things because we’re off to Somerset on Friday for a week and this place will be quiet of new posts until Easter, unless I can get myself online from cider-country.