Last Friday it was Cat Daddy’s birthday, and his second-best present was the whisky that I bought him from the Abhainn Dearg distillery on the Isle of Lewis.
His best present, however, was a restful birthday lie-in unpeppered with feline screaming. There really is no price one can put upon that.
One of the many things that I love about cats – apart from the rare occasions that they let us sleep in peace – is when a meow turns into a yawn. My family have named this phenomenon, erm, the yawn-meow. I know. Creativity and originality just run in our blood.
I suppose it should be the meow-yawn since the meow comes first, but yawn-meow is so much easier to say.
It’s a difficult thing to record because we don’t know when it’s coming. I don’t imagine even the cats know it’s coming – and, if they did, they’d try to hold it in as soon as we took out our phones, just to spite us. But I was lucky enough to capture the Catorzian yawn-meow some time ago but, as is often the case with Louis Catorze, I couldn’t post it at the time as he was doing so much other stupid nonsense which took over Le Blog.
Here is the yawn-meow,
in all its fine glory. You’re welcome: