Cats are stigmatised as unfeeling or selfish, interested only in what we can do for them. I've never agreed with this prejudice, and last week that belief was tested. Normally the cats are awake at dawn.
They are martinets, the three of them using furry-purry headbutts to bully us out of bed. Once they have had their breakfast, they play, Tic Tac goes for a walk, and then the cats go back to bed, leaving us bleary-eyed humans to get on with work while they nap. It's a wonderful life and I'm frequently jealous.
So earlier this month we decided it was our turn to have a lovely lazy time. We planned a proper break, settling on visiting Whitby, a famous seaside town with lots of history, including inspiring Bram Stoker’s Dracula . Afterwards, we'd join friends for a visit to the pub and if it were sunny the day after that, a barbecue.
On the first day, we filled up the kitty crunchie bowls, kissed the cats goodbye, and went adventuring. When we returned that evening, we were unusually tired. By the next day, I burned with fever and chills.
Target sprang into action. When dawn came, I hid deep under the feather duvet. Instead of being bullied, my old boy curled up next to me.
There were no furry headbutts, just a sympathetic lean of his furry face against mine, his green eyes full of sympathy. Purring loudly, Target stretched out, and pushed his paw into my hand. Comforted, I fell asleep and straight into fever dreams.
I was being crushed under a rock while falling off a cliff, .
