Home from work, plunging my bike (get me in the wrong mood and it can be a small drop, to Charlie’s horror) down the steps, it was raining and the day had been three weeks long. Good, but three weeks long. Over popped the neighbour, ‘Francois is poorly! He’s sitting in our flat and he’s been sick!’. Oh Francis. F cat. Effington Stanley. He was very ill indeed. Despondent and disorientated, the boy’s eyes were sad and had fallen away. I picked him up and he clung to me.
We sped him to the vet, who immediately put him on a drip for three days, shaved his little belly and scanned all parts of him. She rang every morning and I cried as she said she was unsure what was wrong with him, or how to fix him. I had to ‘pull myself together’ in the toilets with a flapping hand and remove my lion screensaver.
But I will not bang on – it was awful, but he is FIXED! Well, at least at the mo, he seems like a sparky chap. And what’s more, Ava and he are getting on like a campfire. Mewing at eachother, boshing noses with paws and touching noses. Ava is pretty much in love with Francis and he is intrigued by her. But barely moves to stretch out his paw to take her down a couple of Ava pegs. Cute!
Our flat has essentially turned into a cat house; one kitten, one poorly cat. They swan around and we make sure they are content. I have to put little post its on the doors for the people viewing the flat (yay, can’t wait to move). Anyway, I need to stop writing excessively over my cats. As we bought them both a cat bed each – they didn’t have one before – I told the sales assistant when he asked if we have two cats, ‘ah yes, but er we aren’t, ya know, cat people’, then was tempted to tell him how their personalities resembled mine and Chaz’. What does this mean? Yeh, I know. Anyway…