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The cat and her writer… or everyone’s a critic

So, here I am with my beautiful black mews. (Sorry about the pun, couldn’t resist it!) Her name is Catling, Queen of the Night, and she is the mother of Lord Willow the Clown Prince (aka he who must be swatted regularly by his mother because he is almost certainly up to no good.)

We do not own Catling. She honours us by having chosen to share our home and our lives. She came to us as a stray, with a damaged leg and we were told she might never walk normally again. That was fine by us because she needed us and we needed her because it wasn’t a good time for our family when she came to distract and enchant us.

My brilliant daughter spent ages watching videos of mice and goldfish with her to persuade her to stay still while her leg healed. I coaxed her into taking her antibiotics and anti-inflammatories for months, and now she bounces like a bunny when she runs, but is otherwise fine.

She honours me by curling up beside me as I write, and drinks from the fountains in the garden while refusing a water bowl, presumably because she knows they’re a safe source of water. When she wants attention, she gets it, but she is, and I suspect always will be, her own cat.

So my advice to myself and you this week, is be more cat. Value yourself as you deserve to be valued. Take time for yourself. Stretch regularly and gracefully, and, wherever possible, bask in the sunshine and love.

So here she is, helping me write and having a drink. Isn’t she gorgeous?

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