Sadness in the house tonight. There has been some crying.

The wild rough patch of garden where Hamish spent so much time is being cleared, and the people doing it told our neighbours that they had found the remains of a ginger cat.

That is all we know just now.

I’m cuddling up to Rachel; she needs a little furry purry comfort just now.

Goodbye, little brother.





How to bankrupt your Human


Get a bit thin, thinner than usual, moult a lot, and then let your Human look in your mouth to see how your remaining teeth are doing. Watch Human recoil in horror on discovering that many of the remaining teeth seem to have disappeared.

Human will then google “my cat’s teeth are disappearing” or something intelligent like that, and read a terrifying article about tooth resorption and its dangers, and promptly take you to the vet.

The vet is a Hateful Brute who pretends to be nice. Humans like him, and say he’s excellent with cats. That’s what they think. Out of their sight, he will stick needles in you, he will pull some of your teeth out, lock you in a cage, and refuse to let you go home with your Human for ages.

This time the Hateful Brute seems not to be bothered about the missing teeth, but he tells the Human to leave you with him, to carry out blood tests. The Human falls for this yet again, and goes home without you. Later, the Hateful Brute phones the Human to say it’s not a thyroid problem as first thought, but diabetes, and that you must now be kept prisoner overnight until you produce a urine sample to test.

The next day, Hateful Brute and Human talk. You haven’t got full-blown diabetes, but your blood sugar level is higher than normal. You must be monitored, whatever that means, but for now, are being released.

The Humans come to take you home, and you follow them around all day, crying and acting all pitiful, just to make your point. The Humans say they don’t need any points being made, thank you; they say they have just shelled out almost £200 and don’t you think you’ll be getting Christmas this year. Oh no.

Seems that sympathy is index-linked round here.


Heated pad. Lottie’s heated pad. Scooter likes it too. He looks as though he is asleep, but she knows he is fully aware of her menacing presence.


If she stares at him hard enough, he will get off it and she will reclaim it as her own.

It may take minutes, half an hour, even.


But it never fails.

Getting better

Thank you for your good wishes; they really helped. I managed a decent breakfast today, but am going to stay on this sofa arm all day again.


Millie keeps trying to snuggle in, but I’m just not in the mood. She looks worried. Rachel tells her that my head is almost better, and just to be patient. But I’m the patient!

Not well


I am miserable today. I got into a fight in the middle of the night, and Rachel saw that I wasn’t happy this morning. She smoothed my fur, which was sticking up where I had been scratched, she felt my head and my chin, and heard a nasty crackly squelchy sound. Just there, on top of my head.


So I had to go to the vet. The bite on my head had let some air in, under my skin. I was poked and prodded; I had an injection, my teeth were examined, and I was weighed. I weigh 3.2 kilograms because I don’t eat very much. Rachel told the vet I had been starved when I was young, and was difficult to feed, but I think Rachel’s judgement is skewed because of Catkin the Huge….

Rachel says I will feel better soon. But I’m still miserable now.