(no subject)

A lot of my, let's say, regrettable prose, features sofas. They are the scene of the action, or they are there in the room to be paced around, or a character will smack his hand onto the back of the sofa for emphasis. They are like those bloody oranges in the kitchen in Verbotene Liebe.

Tiny cat friend

For the last two evenings, we have been visited by one of the neighbourhood cats. She (I think it's a she; I haven't had a good enough look at the arse end of it to be sure) is a small young golden brown tabby-ish cat (a little like a younger HarryCat, for those that know him). She is exuberant and adventurous, and bounces up on our laps to give us cat kisses. She also likes to nibble toes, just gently like. I call her TinyCat. Last night, she was being followed by another cat, who I shall call OtherCat. TinyCat came in through the window, and OtherCat sat outside the window and looked in, with the most perfect startled and uncomprehending "wHAT?!" expression on its face.

I don't let TinyCat climb up onto the shelves or onto the kitchen countertops - if she does, I put her on the floor and ignore her, or I put her back outside.

The thing is, though, of all the cats my family have had, this is how we have acquired all but one of them. They just show up and move in. I'm getting a little ahead of myself here, but I am prepared to find out who TinyCat's people are in case I need to get into the habit of taking her back round to their house.



(if anyone DARES start the indoor/outdoor cat debate in my journal, I will send stealth cat operatives to your house to shit in your shoes)