Sex and the Kitty

I was working in Wigan this morning, at a doctors' surgery seventy miles away, and this necessitated getting up at half past five and driving across the M62 in the dark.

Actually, that's entirely irrelevant to this blog post - I just threw it in in the hope that someone, somewhere will go "Oh, poor you, I am so very admiring of your courage and inner strength, you are up there in the bravery stakes with Silverback who has, of course, been valiantly struggling with his Man Flu." (Okay, his post about it was a couple of days ago, but Man Flu is very persistent, you know, and hard to shake off, and it requires a lot of fortitude. As does the M62. Glad we've got that sorted.)

Anyway, I returned from Wigan to find Wendy the kitten behaving as though she'd spent the morning smoking pot.

Which was somewhat strange, since I was pretty sure she hadn't.

I rang Olli in hopes of an explanation.

"Olli, have you been giving the kitten drugs? She's gone even more insane than usual."

"What's she doing?"

"Well, she's rolling about the floor and miaowing all the time. Flirting with my handbag - - there's no other way to describe it. Not letting go of my feet. Rolling over and over. That kind of thing. And if you pick her up, instead of doing what she'd normally do which is biting your hand and trying to sit on your head, she just goes all floppy and looks at you with a stupid expression."

"Oh yes, " said Olli, "she was doing that yesterday. She's hit puberty. She's in season."

She's very pretty, as you can see, and I think could attract the attention of every tom cat in Yorkshire. Fortunately she won't be let out until she's been spayed, which will be next week.

Meanwhile, she has the vacuous yet come-hither expression of a number of minor female celebrities. I was going to mention Paris Hilton here but I once promised never to mention her on my blog again, so I shan't.

But just click on the photo to make it bigger and then look at that cat's expression. I think you will understand what I mean.