Status report

The Lovely Son came and went, taking time to mend a chair and to change the twiddly wall lights for something more neutral that can be painted to match the walls and thus become barely visible after a time. My taste gets plainer and plainer as I get older, and fearfully boring.

In return, he left me a cat.

She (working title Catkin, a term of endearment used by the Lovely Son, who could never decide on a name for her) is settling in, purring loudly for me and growling ferociously at everyone else.

Admittedly, Millie needs to be growled at to stop her from committing murder; Lottie just employs the renowned Death Stare.

Poor Tosca, who has done nothing at all to deserve Catkin's growls and dagger-like glares, is oblivious to the peril she is in as she potters about short-sightedly, too close to the portly newcomer. Flossie has the sense to sit quietly in her basket and avoid making eye contact or her usual friendly overture - even her uncomplicated mind recognises that this is not a cat whose ample behind can safely be sniffed.

Hamish and Scooter respond as we have come to expect; they flee, they hide, they behave as though someone was after them with an axe. I notice that it doesn't affect their ability to know when it's dinnertime.

But by this evening it begins to feel more like a ritualised form of  pseudo-warfare; a Haka as performed by actors rather than by a group of truly dangerous warriors. I feel less anxious about Catkin, although I expect some blood-curdling cries in the night - my bed is Queen Lottie's territory, and is not always willingly shared.

Five cats. How did it come to this?

(image courtesy of The Simpsons)