It’s amazing how much difference a kitten can make by doing nothing at all.
Meet Fergus (a Gaelic name seemed right for a red cat). He rode back from Austria almost two weeks ago tucked into my hoodie, occasionally peeking his head out to watch the alps sweep by. After sleeping the first week he’s grown much more active and playful, chasing anything at the drop of a hat, his tail being a favorite.
At night he still calms down and finds some spot on the bed to hunker down into. I usually wake up to find him in my armpit.
It’s been foggy and damp in Munich, giving me little reason to bother with straightening my hair. The resulting curls are a source of great source of fascination for him. I woke up twice last night to find him on my chest, eyes wide open and dialated, his raised paw poised to take a swat my face. Our next mission will be to get him interested in something else, if I’m to get any sleep that is.
He’s adorable and follows me everywhere. But he’s about to hate me. In thirty minutes I have to pack him into his travel crate and take him for his first vet visit. There will be shots, there will be invasive examination. There may even be a microchip. He’ll leave with his balls intact but his dignity will definitely suffer.
I will be blamed. If he refuses to talk to me for a while this will hurt.