It's a difficult subject to raise, even though we've been together for a few years now.
A very stable and happy relationship between the three of us. Noel. Me. The Cat.
But of late there have been Others. Others who have moved in with us. Others who we don't really like to talk about. It is indeed a matter of some delicacy.
There comes a point, however, when the subject has to be raised. Hang the embarrassment, the scratching and the itching just becomes too much and the evidence is there to see – all those bites on the ankle and the sock like. Yes. The cat has fleas.
Now because he just inveigled his way into our home and our lives, we assumed he belonged to someone else. After all, he wasn't a kitten and he had – ahem – been -ahem – seen to, you know, snippy snippy. So he did belong to someone sometime. He must have had a name, a kitty bowl, probably a litter tray and someone to see to all his needs – including infestations.
We didn't feel we had any right to give him another name, we just call him Cat, or take responsibility for those delicate matters. After all, he wasn't ours. Well, I suppose as he spends most of his sleeping hours (22) and the remaining waking hours either with us or within sight or earshot, we have to accept that he's ours. Or we're his.
I don't mind that, he's been good company and helped me keep my sanity over the past couple of years (ooo, I'm looking forward to blogging about THAT when it's all settled).
But with ownership comes responsibility. It starts with a trip to the vet. An innocent request for flea treatment. Then other issues are raised. Worms? Dental? Beauty therapy? I fear the £17.50 to rid us of the Others for three months is only the start…..
Today's lovely thing
The scent from a daffodil I planted with my own fair hand