There’s no real news on my name though ‘Moggy’ seems to be what the old woman will put on the paperwork. She often calls me ‘cat’ or ‘Mag’, which I understand refers to her previous cat. I with my smoky fur look nothing like how I imagine Mag to have looked.
My fur is smoke-tipped white on my back, white underneath.
My struggle to see how far I can go continues. While the old woman was out and about, I pooped on the spare bed and she didn’t discover it until several hours later. A flurry of cleaning and washing. So I think you can say I won that round!
And then, last night I almost made it out of the shed after bed-time. The old woman caught me just as I had hooked my right-paw claws round the edge of the door and was about to push my head into the gap and force my way through when … you guessed it. She caught me at it and pushed me back in. Then wedged the door in two places.
And everytime after that, when I scratched the bottom of the door to figure out how she had fixed the door so it wouldn’t slide, she said ‘No!’ I stopped counting after sixteen and just went to bed. I guess she won that one.
Today when I used the litter tray, she gave me treat afterward. I can live with that. But when she got home today, she sprinkled some horrible smelling dried leaves in the bedroom doorways.
She said it was rosemary. Whatever. I won’t be going near it.
Do I look relaxed? This was before she called me Houdini after I nearly got free.
Rita de Heer 