Barefoot In The Kitchen

I’d love to be a cat.  What a life it must be… And isn’t my baby a fantastic model?

This is my entry for Tara’s Gallery.  Head over there and have a look at the other entries!

A year ago on Sunday, Eric came home.

In that year, he’s morphed from a tiny ginger scrap to a rather large, leggy ginger tomcat.  He has an appetite to rival David’s during a growth spurt, and will eat us out of house and home if we’re not careful.  (THREE fish fillets.  Yes, three.  One for each cat, or so I thought…)  He and our other cats, Snowball and Wily, are now on speaking terms: Snowball and Wily are brother and sister, and still dislike each other, so it’s nothing short of a miracle.

He’s the fluffiest, fuzziest, most affectionate cat you could ever meet.  He loves David.  If they’re both playing in the garden Eric will bound over to David, roll over, and purr whilst David strokes him.  He makes friends with every visitor, if only because they might have a treat hidden somewhere about their person, and treats are an opportunity not to be missed!

When he was tiny, he slept in a pouch sling near my chest, before he graduated onto sleeping wrapped around my shoulders.  When the weather’s cooler, he’ll still quite happily come and snuggle in the sling.

He’s a proficient mouser.  We find presents from him regularly.  He is, however, terrible at catching birds: he runs up to them miaowing at the top of his voice with excitement.

He’s added so much to our family.  He brings such joy to all of us, especially David.  I can’t imagine being without him.

If you love Eric almost as much as I do, he now has an appreciation society all of his own!  Come and join in…

Today is Eric’s birthday.  He’s turning one.

This is Eric just after we first met him:

Nine months ago, when we’d finally managed to bring him home, he looked like this:

At Christmas, post Christmas Tree-destroying mission with his friend Charlie, he looked like this:

And now?  This.

He’s evolved from a fuzzball who didn’t stop purring to a much bigger fuzzball who, erm, doesn’t stop purring.  He’s now the feline equivalent of a fourteen-year-old boy, all hormones and “look at me, I’m in charge” with the other two cats, but he’s such a soppy Mummy’s boy with me.  He has perfected the art of poking Snowball so that she hisses at him but doesn’t hurt him, and he’s started challenging Wily’s authority: I’m looking forward to seeing who’s going to end up as The Boss.

So, Happy Birthday, Mr Half-a-bee, and here’s to many more to come.