These are not meant to discourage her from future experiments - there's nothing I'd like more than to come home this evening and find her wedged happily inside my computer printer or one of Dee's Ugg boots - but to give her a very real sense of the competition out there. I would be cruel to expect her to be.īut, as regular readers of this blog will know, I like to try and keep my cats grounded, so, for fear that Bootsy develops any warped ideas about her talent for narcoleptic cuteness, I have decided to provide the following examples of sleeping cats. Bootsy, having never been out of East Anglia, is not aware of just how many other cats are in the universe and that many of them are even more deviously adorable and self-consciously "Who? Little me?" in attitude than her.
Who knows? In the last five minutes - that's right, the last five minutes - a tabby could have curled up on a goat's stomach, or inserted itself knowingly into the family wok. Because, really, in the grand scheme of things, how cute is Bootsy in this picture? Right now, as we speak, there are cats sleeping in all kinds of unusual and impossibly cute places. I thought I was Seve Ballesteros, but in reality I had simply managed to hole a few more putts than various part-time players from the East Midlands, the most fearsome of which being bloke called Maurice, with a hip problem and a struggling garden landscaping business: there was a big, competitive golfing world out there, and it would soon come to devour my delusions. I see Bootsy in this instance as a little like me, when I won my first local golf tournament the age of 14. In her head, she can probably already picture the resulting greeting cards flying of the shelf, the aunts and grandmas making cooing noises. You can see from her face that she's incredibly pleased with herself about it. It's also impressive to see the skill with which she manages to nimbly get into the basket without tipping it over. Admittedly, the first time I saw this I thought it was very sweet. Although she's not asleep in the photographs, she often dozes off in the basket for periods of up to four hours. And why would it? After all, she lives in a house where random ancient crisp packets and sweet wrappers are often strewn across the carpet, courtesy of Janet.
It doesn't bother Bootsy one iota that she's sitting in what's essentially a slightly upmarket dustbin.
The above pictures show Bootsy, my smallest and most demanding cat, indulging in her latest, most impressive habit: curling up in the wastepaper basket in my bedroom. The jury is still out, but this news story from last week and the video below suggest that cats might not be quite as afraid of swimming as we're led to believe.
It would also explain the time he mysteriously appeared on the opposite bank of the river next to a house I once rented, even though the nearest bridge was more than a mile away. This seems a bit far-fetched - the water is very deep, and about 3-400 yards across at its narrowest point - but on the other hand there are probably plenty of tasty niblets to be found on the other side in the bins of the cafes and pubs abutting the water. One theory is that he had just got back from a swim across the mere (or "glorified pond" to non-East Anglians) that cuts in at the bottom of my garden. Except it hadn't been raining for at least twelve hours at the time, and it's not hosepipe season, so there does not seem to be any obvious explanation for the state of his fur. The other day The Bear (that's sadly not him pictured above, in otter mode) came home completely drenched, with that eager, faux-affectionate "Get the tissues then - what are you waiting for?" look he favours after being caught in anything more than a mild shower.
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