With four days remaining until Mr L finally makes it home the cats have upped their campaign against me. On Monday afternoon they brought a friend to visit. Fortunately not a particularly fresh one, which meant encouraging them to part with their new acquaintance was simplier than it could have been, however I could have done without it.
I thought things had calmed down as I made my way to bed. Both cats were settled happily on the sofa, and I pottered upstairs hoping that perhaps they’d had their fun and finally things could settle down. Little did I know what was to follow. Around 4am I was woken by the most ridiculous racket. Monte (our youngest, and the clear ringleader in this crusade) was howling, yowling and scratching at the bedroom door. In my bleary eye-ed state I began to worry that he was hurt, starving or worse (worse?!). I nearly tore myself out from under the warm duvet and hurled myself across the room to comfort him, but something stopped me. My subconscious must have know.
I came down in the morning to find the bowls still full of food, plenty of water available and Monte spark out in the living room looking warm, fluffy and frustratingly rested. I groped for the coffee gently growling under my breath about the “wretched animal”.
I’d won that battle, but not the war, oh no. Last night they upped the ante and I got two guests, both within half an hour of each other. I retreated upstairs, tired, defeated and resigned and can only wonder at what delights will greet me when I return home from work.