But what is this obsession with cats? It seems to run in the family - certainly my sister and I have both ended up with it. Grandad was always a cat's best friend, our Aunt Tracy has had at least seven feline furballs at a time and Uncle Frank describes himself as 'dotty about cats'. I grew up with a fat moggy called, er, Moggy whose eventual demise upset my mother so much that she refused to ever form another feline bond.
I so enjoyed living with Tufter, the daft old cat who shared my home until his disappearence early in this blog. I was perfectly happy to just provide him with a warm spot on the sofa and sit next to his sleeping (occasionally snoring) little body. And now that he's gone, I leave the back door open whenever I'm home just in case the neighbours' cats fancy popping round.
|Tufter in his usual repose|
And you'd have thought that the modern astute person armed with this knowledge would kick the cuckoo out of the nest, but no. We still fall for it. I am not broody, I have no desire to partner up and have babies (and a good job too - it would put quite a kink in my travel plans), but I do feel that little tugging need to settle down somewhere comfortable and acquire cats.
Who can explain how to get over this?