When it rains, the cat is always outraged.
He comes into the office, where I am working, and meows loudly at me. At first I wonder whether he has been fed (of course he has been fed), and then I stroke him and realise he’s been out in the rain again. Oh dear.
Up he jumps onto the desk. I make sure he stays on Mr HB’s side with his muddy paws. After prowling around a bit so that I know he’s there, it’s onto some serious washing, using his teeth to pull the dirt from his claws, licking his paws to wash his face, fluffing back up into a dry cat. Brown prints all over the song lyrics he’s lying on, eyes still wide and angry, twisting his tummy up for a stroke.
That’s all really. Just – my cat.
