My old fella, Mr One-eyed-cat. Oh he's such a delight. But I was a bit worried the other day when he didn't get up for breakfast. I'd been off work for a week (a "stay-cation", I think it's called) and he was basking in the glory of continuous attention and responses.
The first day I went back, he got up with me, all gleeful that I wasn't laying in past dawn, when he thinks is a good time to get up for first breakfast. He proper drooped when I said "Cheerio" and left and locked the door behind me though. And the next day when I got up as normal for work, but he didn't get up. Well, he did, he got up enough to turn his back on me.
And when I got home, he ignored me again. Just long enough to make go for looking for him, so that he could turn his back on me again.
And then the last two nights, this chap, who is getting on for 17 years old, who has outlived his sister-wife, and all his offspring, went a-galloping around the house, upstairs and downstairs, clicking and cluttering and chittering and chattering, landing flat-footed and sliding against the skirting.
Full moon and a change in the weather. What else could it be, eh?