Sunday, 2 October 2016

Pussy Galore.

For the past few weeks, my cat has taken to living in a cardboard box. 

She's like the band Living in a Box, except for being feline and not prone to releasing eponymously named singles. She's always been a one for phases, but this one's more extreme than usual, in that she's seldom visible, save for when she pops out to get something to eat or go to the loo, or when she glares at us through the ad hoc door at the front. 

To be fair to her, it does look quite cosy in there. I can see why she's so taken to it. I'd just like her to stop to say hello more often she is at the moment, which is usually when she comes out for her early-morning treat at the usual allotted time; like most cats, she's a little git. 

It's not even a particularly big box. If anything it's a little small for her; not that she seems to notice; she'll curl herself up in a little ball in there and sleep for hours. 

The strangest aspect of the whole thing, which literally is taking place as I write, is her tendency to stick her head in there as she climbs in, then start howling us from the inside, like she can't understand who we're not in the box with her, giving her lots of attention; she has little concept of comparative size. 

A couple of hours ago saw the first time she's sat on my lap for weeks. Even then, she didn't look convinced; it was like she was wasting valuable time in the open, that could be spent in her new-found natural habitat. Can you buy reclusive cats? If there's a market for them, I could make a mint.  

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