I feel bad for our cat at the moment because I can’t help wishing that he were a dog.
It’s all terribly fickle and mostly due to the fact that some friends have just bought a tiny, sausage dog puppy (or sausage puppy?!) which has the knack of looking terribly sweet and serious at the same time.
Milo can be rather dog-like at times (he’ll obediently trot over if you call his name most of the time and has a certain swaggery canine confidence when he flings himself to the floor.) But he’s a cat.
He’s a rather lovely one, I must say, and he certainly seems pleased to see me when I come home and also at five o’clock in the morning … or whatever time he’s decided he wants his breakfast. But he’s a cat.
It all makes me feel like a terrible cat mother and I hope he’s not picking up on my damaging projections.
But then I realise, when I look into his big, glassy eyes, the really wonderful thing about a cat … he is completely oblivious to it all.