A Brief Introduction To My Cats

Since it’s a bit early in the blog for ranting (too early for ranting? Yes, really!)  I think now seems an appropriate time to introduce my cats, as I am a little bit of a Mad Cat Lady and will almost certainly be referring to them almost constantly.

This is Bruce

Bruce is a soft cuddly hulk of a cat of indeterminate age – somewhere between 3 and 5 years old at an estimate. Like most of the cats I’ve owned, he was a rescue. My sister-in-law works at the local vet practise and regularly offers us waifs and strays. Prior to owning Bruce, we had a rescue kitten named Leyla who died at 3 months old from congenital defects. We adopted Bruce five months later. He was found wandering in a car park with an abscess and severe gingivitis.

Bruce is sweet and very laid back. He is mostly quiet and likes his naptimes. He is also the biggest cat I have ever seen.

This is Wilson

Wilson is roughly 8 months old and is pretty much Bruce’s polar opposite, despite being nearly identical. He is also a rescue cat. He is very fond of mad dashes around the house, freerunning (which usually ends with him balanced precariously on the doorframe, mewing pathetically because he can’t get down) He does occasionally involve Bruce in his circuit training but the poor boy just doesn’t have the stamina.

Wilson is particularly mischievous at night, which doesn’t bother me half as much as it does Mr Monkeh. An average night with Wilson will mean book covers being chewed, toys hidden in shoes, shelves being helpfully re-arranged and socks hidden under the bed. Occasionally, Wilson will do something really special, like knock the bedside lamp onto Mr Monkeh while he’s sleeping, or attempt to groom his hair at 4am.

Despite their differences, Bruce and Wilson are BFF’s:

There is another cat in my life:

This is Fizzgig

Fizzgig lives with my ma, although I got her while I was at university. When I first agreed to home Fizzgig, I was living in a shared flat – an insanely spacious place (although really quite run down) with plenty of room for Fizzy. However, circumstances quickly changed and we ended up having to move to a smaller, colder house with, conveniently, a no-pet rule. This, combined with a mini nervous breakdown meant that poor Fizzgig ended up going to live at my ma’s.

This seems to have been for the best, though; she is absolutely the queen of the house and is spoiled rotten, so I’m quite sure she wouldn’t have had it any other way.


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