It's ok, non-cat-people: I'll turn back to my regular diet of morning glories and sunsets, soon ... but bear with me, and Gramsci, for now, because he would like you (and me) to look at ,.5¢œ∑a [message from him, as he bounds over the computer, again] - to look at him. He's still a tiny kitten: it is so very good to be able to scroll back nine years, to Moth and Walter Gomez's kitten hood, and remember not just that they were tiny, too, but that I lived then, as now, in a state of constant feline anxiety and hypochondria. However do human parents manage? Antonio the Ocelet has much enjoyed playing today, especially with a fluffy small pink ball that he can carry around, and put into a large shoebox with one or two of his other toys, and then pick up again and bring to me, ready for it to be thrown again. Moth remains in a state of horrified denial (she occasionally sees a small feline scoot out of my study, only to be scooped up and brought back). We have Feliway plugged in; we are making sure Moth encounters Gramsci-scented tee-shirts, and vice versa; we are taking this very, very slowly.
Also - my head's not that big - you can see how pint-sized he really is ...
No comments:
Post a Comment