It’s New Year’s Eve. There was a time when I would rather have punched myself in both eyes than stayed home tonight. Whereas, now, the idea of catching a tube across town and paying £30 to enter a pub that I would ordinarily be able to enter free of charge, doesn’t appeal at all. Plus queuing for toilets, Compromise Prosecco instead of proper Crémant and so on – just NO. So Cat Daddy and I will be spending the night TUC.
For once in our lives, the member of the household who is in the best state of health, not simply lacking in ailments but positively glowing and well, is Louis Catorze.
I was a little worried about him when his last vet visit revealed a weight loss of 190g (almost two bars of Green and Black’s chocolate – a lot for one so small), but the vet wasn’t unduly concerned since his habits haven’t changed. The little sod is showing every sign of being a healthy cat: eating and drinking well, playing constantly, diving underneath blankets and cushions and thrashing around and, somehow, managing to find rodents from somewhere, despite us being in the depths of winter.
(I could do without that last one but, since it’s a clear sign that he’s feeling good, I’ll take it. Cat Daddy, however, is delighted that his boy has rediscovered hunting, because it reassures him that he has raised a manly cat who can take care of himself.)
If it’s true that the way in which one year ends is indicative of how the next one will go, Sa Maj looks set to have an absolute cracker of a 2023, when he will turn a sinister but impressive thirteen.
I hope 2023 is a glorious year for you, and thank you so much for
putting up with supporting us and our dear little sod. Here he is, having just finished gadding about in the soft plastics recycling, ready to race up the stairs and attack some hapless object (probably me):