His stillness was total. The epitome of comfort, Max Mousesniffer slept as he had for the previous three hours; the twitching of an ear and the odd grunt, the only sign of life.
It was hard, being eleven and carrying the mantel of Best Cat in the ENTIRE World, but he fulfilled his duty with great aplomb, maintaining his energy levels by sleeping for all but two hours of the day.
His waking was signalled by the opening of an eye. He perused the annoyance that had arrived: "Oh, it's that mong, Otto. One-eyed fucker. Wish he'd piss off and stop acting such a dick." With a stretch, a yawn and a scratch, Max Mousesniffer adjusted his position and returned to sleep, a spot of dribble suspended from his mouth.
...And so it begins. I think I'm going to start a new blog in the style of the diary of supreme feline being, Max Mousesniffer (the name was Herge's idea).
It'd be great to know what our pets think of us. They probably think we're all stupid: "What is it with getting up at the crack of dawn, getting yourself soaking wet, blasting your head with hot and noisy air and leaving the house for TEN hours a day when you could just stay in bed and get up to mither a bit of food from the Can Openers? People are idiots."
They're such creatures of habit though. You get up at 5.30 or 6am during the week and they're impossible to move. Otto insists on sleeping next to me; it's lovely having him cuddled up, but because one side of my bed is against a wall, I have to get past him to get out of bed. He's like a sulky teenager if you try to shift him before 6.20am during the week, but if you're not out of bed and getting his breakfast by 6.30 at the weekend, he comes mithering me to get up. He starts by trying to be subtle, sitting on the windowledge and looking through the gaps in the blind, then trying to get his entire head through the gaps to see what's going on outside. This results in the shuffle.... bang... bang... bang... shuffle of cat stuck in venetian blind and venetian blind against window. When he gets bored of his squirrel tormentors, he jumps on the bed and starts to tap my harm - nice and soft at first, then followed by the subtle hint of claw... tap, tap, scratch. So you get up to feed him, and he leaves it anyway, but comes back to bed with you once he's satisfied that you care about him. Little bastard.
It's such a lovely thought knowing that while I'm sat here, knackered and so very tempted to shut the office door and put my head down for an hour, they're all at home, curled up on comfy chairs and beds.
Is everybody coping with autumn as badly as I am? So very tired and fed up.
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