The cat is entirely back to her old self, if not with a vengeance. She’s been much more active than previously, and had to be shut out of the bedroom yesterday for playing shakeymouse with, in turn: some hair ties, an old panel pin, and my glasses on the bedside table.
Today she’s had the run of the garden and house, as the glorious bank holiday weather has permitted the doors to be open all day. Is she content? Not in the slightest: she ‘s been whining as frequently as ever; trying to communicate some incomprehensible feline Schade, of which K. and I care as little as we understand.
But, oh! the chances we have had: to be able to rub the tummy of a cat, warmed to sizzling in the sunlight is worth every plaintive, piercing mew.