Bally time wasters, the lot of ’em.
You go to fetch something in Maddie’s room – hermetically sealed, to delay the moment the dog meets them – and these tiny scraps are curled up on the bed regarding you solemnly.
And immediately you forget what you came in for. And you tell yourself: two minutes won’t hurt. They need to be socialised, you rationalise. And you sit down.
And suddenly, it’s twenty minutes later.
A kitten is worse than the internet. Fact. Tearing yourself away from the laptop is vastly easier than disengaging oneself from these very small, perfect little creatures with the instincts of a tiger, playing at killing things.
Monty and Millie are becoming sturdier. They are happy to be held and stroked. They are getting braver. Siamese runs in their blood, and they have ears as big as bats. I expect they have sonar capability.
With their Siamese heritage comes a perfection you don’t get in English cats. They don’t look kittenish so much as very small, perfect cats out of scale. They remind me of all the cats I have ever seen in the British Museum.
They still knock over their water, don’t get me wrong, and shred toys, and fight, and do comedy stuff. But Siamese cats were the temple cats of Siam, the guard cats who could sound the alarm with their piercing cat-talk. They have not realised yet that this is a bumbling British home, and that they do not need to stand sentry by the window with quite such seriousness, because there are no warriors coming to threaten the dynasty, only children outside on bicycles and postmen coming to deliver their daily batch of letters.
They’ll get it eventually, I expect.