“Poppy.”

poppy

I wrote about Poppy in my first post. He’s not my “favourite” – in the sense that I don’t tell people he’s my favourite. It’s difficult to describe Poppy’s role in my life – indeed, all the cats’ roles in my life. Shall I say they are my companions? My beacons of warmth? My precious slivers of joy? My fuzzy-wuzzy patootie coochiecoos?

The past few days, I’ve had throbbing pains in my arm as a pretty strong reminder that, whatever embarrassing pet-names I lustily carol as I sail through the door, the buggers can put up a fight when they want to. Poppy’s was worth surgery and 13 stitches.

Strangely, after nearly a week in hospital and then a night at the parents’, I missed him and the rest unbearably. I skipped the rents’ home as soon as I could to get back to mine and luxuriate in the simple happiness of cuddling my squirmy furry kitballs.

The fight and injury I just mentioned needs context. I’ve got a bit of a hairy situation going on – one of my babies doesn’t get on with the rest. Or rather, two of my boys detest my little girl and would eat her if given the chance. So they are kept separated – the girl lives in her own room. The fight happened when Poppy rushed the gates as I was going in to feed her.

My living situation is a little tenuous at the moment. I may have to give up my flat at some point, and I’m not sure if the next place would have rooms enough to accommodate this tricky scenario. The injury has set off a ticking timer that my cosy bubble of a paradise with the four kitties may soon have to change. The thought of giving away any one of them is horribly heartbreaking and my insides seize up at the contemplation of it.

But for now I will try to ignore the quiet, ominous, hateful ticking in the background, and just find happiness in the present with my three lazy boys sprawled in the living room on the rugs I made for them, and the one fluffy girl curled sweetly around my legs in the bedroom.

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