Guess who's back

Oscar. Yes, Oscar. The lady who took him isolated him from her other cat for one night because of his continuing sniffles and he was crying so much on his own that she felt too sorry for him. The very next day, Matt and I missioned it on the subway to Kipling to pick him. The day after that, I walked 6.6 km in my pretty shoes just to pick up medicine for him. ("You can't walk walk that!" Ferne at TCR exclaimed. "Pssh," I said, examining my nails coyly, "That's nothing. You should see how far I walk for human medicine." I didn't really say that). Listening to The Bugle podcasts en route and getting a tan made it all the more worthwhile.

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaargh. Don't get me wrong, we actually really missed Oscar and were really happy to have him back once more, plus the lady said she will still take him once he's better, but I can't help but think I will be stuck with six full grown cats in my 2m x 2m flat for the rest of their lives. Christ, the way I'm going, it'll probably be for the rest of my life. I'm convinced I'll have to raise my future children in this cat house, constantly attempting to prevent them from attacking the baby in its crib or eating its food when I turn my back. On the brighter side, maybe I could get them to help me raise it. You know, a bit like Mogli. There are many feline values that could be appropriate for a child to learn, like... uh... getting what you want by looking cute and speaking nicely... uh... being assertive and feisty... uh... begging soul-destroyingly for food and... umm... developing cunning. Yes, cunning is always important if this kid is to become a mastermind in this day and age, and who better than Celia to be the meticulous tutor for that purpose? And when the kids are older, they can call her Mum too and refer to the former kittens as their uncles and aunties. I'm just wondering where Matt falls into this. I'm suspecting he falls out of this some years before conception has taken place. 

*Sigh* 

Well, I just hope my friends and loved ones will recognize the vital signs when I'm confined to a rocking chair in my 80s enduring several debilitating illnesses and the cats start eyeing me up suspiciously.

NB: If you think this picture's intriguing, check THIS out.