Mad About The Boy

Having the new kitty is, as Jac predicted, making me remember the last kitty, but not in a sad way anymore, which is a good thing. And this is not only because we keep accidentally calling poor Basil Bertie. It's about and because of their differences really; we'll observe that Basil is barely noticeable when he sleeps in our bed and remember that Mister-light-sleeping-Fixit was always having to turf Bertie out because of Bertie's determination to sleep under the doona. Or we'll see how sweet-natured Basil is and remember how Bertie was endearingly a bit of a bad-ass, right from the start. As Basil squirms uncomfortably when we pick him up we'll think back to the way Bertie was completely happy and relaxed lying on his back in our arms.

Suddenly and belatedly I found myself pondering the wisdom of letting myself get attached to another little ball of fur when losing the last one had so totally broken my heart - but by then Basil was in our home and had stolen into my affections without me quite realising. He's just so very sweet you see, and funny, and lovely, and loving. So now we are just relishing having a pet in the family again, and being kept amused by all his little ways.

There's the way he seeks out your lap as soon as you sit down....



... and the way he goes all ninja when he playfights you (mid-air somersaults or sideways roundhouse kick-pounces, completely hilarious and unexpected).



There's his predilection for shoes; always either trying to sit on or in between your feet if you stand in front of a heater for long enough or else attacking shoelaces for all he's worth.

And just general cuteness and prettiness, really. This is how I found him when I came home from school drop-off the other day, enjoying a bit of table soccer.



When Bertie disappeared I spent ages listening out for him, hoping to hear the noise of him jumping through the back window. So it is so very nice to have kitty noises in the house again, purrs and thuds, a meow when the fridge is opened, a mad galumphing of small furry feet as he does a psycho-run through the house, legs skidding out the side from under him as he flails madly round the corner, all these things we missed since Bertie went away. I think my favourite noise is the cat-induced laughter in the house, especially when he play-fights us, because then what I hear is ha ha ha Ow.