It's your "Gotcha" birthday.
Three years go I collected this aloof, skinny, silky cat from the Coldstream Animal Aid centre. You didn't make a sound as I drove you home. We stopped in at a friend's place to collect a very cool litter tray, then we were home.
First we changed your name. You're not a Reggie. Lucifer is the name of a regal fellow like you, so Lucifer it is. I call you Darling Boy or Fluffy Butt most of the time, anyway.
I took you on a limited adoption, not knowing if you would like me. That failed. Three years on, you're still here.
You slept behind my knees that first night.
I was in, it seems.
Three years on, you're not quite as aloof. You half-like belly rubs. You tolerate me picking you up and giving you a cuddle first thing in the morning as I scoop you off my office chair. I'm waiting for it to get cooler so you'll sleep between my knees again.
You love raw chicken.
You love eating pot plants - and your rotation of cat grasses which sit in the kitchen window are your favourite things.
You're a bit of an unashamed wanker.
You like to terrorise the vet.
You're hysterically funny when you get the odd dingleberry.
You're not that funny when you throw up on the mats. Or wipe your bum on the mats.
But you are my darling, silky, slinky mini house panther, and I love you dearly, even if you're not that cuddly and like to stick your bum in my zoom calls.
You're just my cat, and it's you and me against the world, and I couldn't ask for a better partner panther in crime.
Lots of love,
Mummy
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