Hrmph! Here’s another absentee wiblogger emerging from the shadows, after a long-time dalliance over on blogger. The innards of Musings are working, I’m glad to say; reading Chelly’s warning about the prevalence of pork luncheon meat prompted me to stir myself and log on again. I appear to be spam free, thank goodness, even if my stats have that lonely, moth-eaten look to them. I do still read some of you regularly though via the listing on my other blog and I loved meeting up with some of you earlier in the year at Smudgie’s licencing.
So, what’s been going on down our way since my last post here? Well, the late, great Miffcat Mk3 has been replaced by moggie Mk4, aka Tigercat – a rather skew-whiff, feisty chap, with a passion for hunting games and an apparent allergy to vets. This last probably resulting from his experiences after a horrible road traffic accident back in his misspent youth. Jekyll and Hyde just isn’t in it, as Mr M and I, one vet and a vetinary nurse can certify. At the sight of a needle he transforms from ‘Simon’s Cat’ into a spitting, scratching, growling devil. Ouch. But we love him all the same. He’s certainly leaving his mark – usually in the form of a little ‘present,’ in front of his litter box for me to discover at crack of dawn.
The offspring are pottering along nicely. Ms M is well established in graphic design now; Mstr M currently working on his masters disertation:Umpteen thousand words on Gormenghast in the style of an autopsy report, anyone?
And Mr M? Well, he’s gradually getting back into cycling after a year or so’s break. Myself? Well, still ‘Seabirding,’ (are you still around, Rosamundi?); being on the area team for this has been a fair old learning curve for me. As has the process of getting involved in giving spiritual direction, following on from training some years back. Does anyone remember those cryptic entries about my trips down to the land of seabirds and brisk sea breezes?
Most of my online musing goes on now over at Growing Greenpatches but I’ll try and get back over here more often, I promise.
The significance of Ash Wednesday is all too close for comfort, I’m afraid. We’ve been up all night,with the odd snatch of sleep here and there, watching over poor old Miffcat – Chops, who’s on her last legs. She’s drifting in and out of sleep; let’s hope it stays that way as much as possible.I’m astonished that she’s lasted the night. Ah well.
Shouldn’t complain, with the mild winter we’ve had up to now but…
The heating is on, I’m wearing two pairs of woolly leggings under my jeans and a hot water bottle on my lap. Miffcat Mark Three has the comfy armchair next to the radiator, another hot water bottle and a microwave beanbag puppy. I don’t begrudge her them. The poor scrap’s liver is failing; we really didn’t expect her to still be around by now, but since being prescribed steroids a week ago, she’s perked up quite a bit. She still springs to life when any fish is in the offing (makes giving her her pills so much easier) and wobbles her way through to the kitchen at double speed.
Here’s hoping I’m not banned from the wibsite for featuring this little menagerie: Firstly, Miffy Jnr, sporting his very first moustache, in aid of the Movember mens’ health initiative.
Second up – our two resident hairy horrors: Miffcat in one of her (many) snoozing places – the dog’s kingsize bed; her humble servant and subject, Miffdog squeezed into second class accommodation nearby.
I’ll spare you the sight of HH number three – Mr M’s beard. It wouldn’t be fair.
Typical! Choppy – aka Miffcat, had her annual vaccinations yesterday, and ever since has insisted on giving a remarkably realistic imitation of a hearthrug in a catatonic state. The pedicure was the last straw, I think. She’s been hiding away ever since getting home; last sighting being behind Mr M’s music stand, where she is currently in meaningful communion with a crumpled plastic bag. Needless to say, I’ve been running around after her with tasty treats and generally behaving like a mother hen with her chicks. (Neurotic – moi?)
It’s at this point that the postman delivers the annual letter from the cat shelter exorting our feline Greta Garbo to purr sweetly at her mummy and daddy in the hopes that they might feel moved to donate a little something to funds. If the purring technique doesn’t work you could always try other tricks for getting your own way (refusing to eat, ignoring the humans or rolling onto your back and pretending you want your tummy tickled – we all know what happens then).
Hah! That’s all I can say. Oh well, I know I’ll give in to her eventually. Where’s that tin of tuna?