Christmas Day

On this morning I follow my usual routine.  Feed Fat Ginge, walk the dogs, visit Pushkin’s Palace where – normally speaking – I would have a chat or, sadly over the last few days, instead peer mournfully into her food bowls and realize that they are still full.  But, this morning the food has gone.  Yes!  This is either very significant or Fat Ginge has discovered an extra source of nourishment.  I scout around for other signs – any poohs or scratching places.  But that’s it - nothing more.

Back in the house, prepping some vegetables for Christmas Dinner and waiting for folk to arrive, I muse on the whereabouts of the little absentee. Actually, since she began to talk to me, she’s been very self sufficient.  She completely ignores the plant pot and the litter tray and I have no idea where she chooses to do her business.  I suspect, if I went upstairs at the back of the barn, there’d probably be a pile of mummified cat poohs in a corner somewhere, but, as it is a barn, it doesn't really matter. What lovely thoughts to entertain whilst cooking.  There exists a possibility that I don’t have enough to do...

And then the phone rings.  My neighbour can hardly manage the obligatory ‘Merry Christmas’ before she tells me she’s just seen Pushkin trotting down the lane, tail held high, heading back towards the barn.  Brilliant!  I am absolutely delighted.  What terrific Christmas news.

I ditch the sprout preparation and rush over to the barn.  Sure enough, there is our little heroine, sitting up on her beam, cool as a cucumber.  She was obviously perfectly capable all along of popping in and out of the window and has decided that the barn is a good place to be.  She drops down for a chat and a few extra munchy crunchies – with much purring and head rubbing.  Excellent.  Excellent.  Serious cause to rejoice!

© Fell-Dweller