Becoming a cat person

Cat sitting in Kendal and preparing for Transgrancanaria

I spent last week cat sitting in Kendal. I started writing this on Sunday morning, sitting at the dining table while Rusty attempted to make a nest from a blanket on the sofa. This seems to be a key part of his daily routine. He wraps himself up like a burrito, entirely covered expect for one lone paw sticking out, then spends most of the morning cocooned and asleep. I didn’t notice he was there on the first day and nearly sat on him, but soon learned to check whether the fold in the blanket contains a cat.

I’ve never really looked after a cat before. We had two quite mangy moggies when I was little, one called Sooty who my mum brought to my parents’ relationship and then Puss, who had been my dad’s. Puss was part of a litter that Dad’s original cat Mummy Puss had given birth to, which also consisted of Tarty Puss, Favourite Puss and No Name Puss. Our Puss was apparently known as Shitty Puss until, at the point I knew her, she was the only one left and no longer needed a differentiator…