Phoebe is at least 17 years old. She is not a cat's cat. She is a people cat. In fact, I believe she believes she is not a cat at all, but a people in a cat costume. She is cat intolerant. But she appears to have accepted Flora without much ado. When presented with aforesaid Flora, Phoebe licked her head a few times, declared she tasted like chicken and has henceforth pretty much ignored her, giving her a cursory sniff and/or lick as she passes by. No way is Phoebe going to allow a mere kitten to interfere with her hectic daily routine of sleeping, eating, sleeping, wee and pooing, eating, sleeping and sleeping.
Tybalt ( age 10 and a half) on the other hand, has been what I can only describe as unnecessarily circumspect as these extracts from his daily diary will testify:
Monday - day starts well. Begin morning with Triumphal Wee Gallop, have some breakfast (disappointingly not the smoked kippers I had requested), and settle down to sleeping in sunshine on the chaise. However, the day takes a dreadful turn for the worse just after tea time. Andrew arrives home with a cat carrier and promptly jabs me in the scruff with a hypodermic needle. Disappear upstairs to sulk and apply tea tree oil to wound. Strange noises emanate from downstairs, mostly of women squealing with little girl squealy noises. Put on box set of 'Dad's Army - The Pre-War Years' to drown out the noise.
Tuesday - feel sick. Consult Andrew the Vet - he says it is probably a reaction to the vaccination I had yesterday and that I must make sure I eat best salmon, Cornish clotted cream on fat scones, and champagne all day. I give him a guinea for his troubles and relay the dietary information to Denise. She laughs and says I can have cat biscuit as usual and some tuna if I am good. She says, 'Look at this Tybalt,' and puts a b****y KITTEN on the floor. A KITTEN!! The kitten makes a run at me like a massive hairy twenty legged spider. I run from the kitten. I stay upstairs all day and sulk. Get to page 573 of 'A La Recherché Du Temps Perdu.'
Wednesday - Come downstairs and yak up in Denise's shoes. It is the remains of the fur ball I have already yakked up in her sheepskin rug. She hasn't found that one yet. The kitten seems to be taking up a disproportionate amount of time that should be mine for the purpose of patting and petting and ruffling up and rolling on the floor. It is also psychopathic and anti-social. It has lunged at me TWICE today. Retire upstairs to make a spreadsheet detailing exactly the amount of time that is being wasted on the kitten and not on me. Book up 'Watercolours for Beginners' and 'Intermediate Pilates' for September using Denise's credit card.
Thursday - I have decided I am NOT going to be held to ransom in my own home by something that is only the size of my head and does not yet possess a full complement of teeth or walking in a straight line skill set. Phoebe says the kitten tastes like chicken. I give the kitten a sniff. It smells like poo. Clearly incapable of using the litter tray judging by the number of blankets on the airer. Denise returns from shopping bearing a bribery gift of catnip chocolate drops. I deign to eat a few, just to show I am capable of offering forgiveness. Spend rest of afternoon in drug-induced stupor chasing rainbow goblins round the house.
Friday - I determine to resume my position on the downstair armchair i.e the arm. It is MY space and if I leave it vacated then who knows which brazen creature will usurp it. My hi-tec earphones arrive from Bose. Listen to 'The Ring Cycle' - 'The Ride of the Valkyries' proves very effective in drowning out stupid kitten noises. The New Seekers less so. Denise says the kitten will prove an excellent romping companion when she is bigger. I remain to be convinced given she is still little more than a pinhead. I could still squish her like a Mybug.