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“One thing we have that he doesn’t: three cats.”

Uh, how quickly fact overtakes report. Four cats.

She ran in the door past our ankles as we came in from the pub the other night. A fluffy little smoke, gold, and white calico kitten, maybe six weeks old. The older cats are disgusted: the place is obviously going to pot. Beemer is outraged: she thought she was unique. The new kitten (whose name is Bubble) is boinging around the place, cheerfully oblivious…and strangely steely-calm in a way which has already upset even the intense and aggressive Beemer.

We’re up to strength again: two males, two females… Owl Springs, the Soap Opera. The household is in turmoil. As it should be, I guess…