It was a usual Saturday morning. The heatwave was still glaring and the garden had become so dry the cats had stopped eating cat grass and started on clipped pieces of hay, leaves and, in some cases, soil. They were getting sick.
We had already made three midnight trips to the animal hospital after cats had brought up stones and bile. Enough was enough. Hosepipe ban or not, this was edging into a life-or-death situation. One pebble in the wrong place can mean an incredibly dangerous obstruction.
So, we had to clear the garden. Dead leaves and plants removed. New topsoil laid. Everything watered. Fresh cat grass planted. When I say we, I mean Matt. I had promised to help, but instead I made him a fresh strawberry and vanilla cheesecake-filled sponge. By the time the garden was being watered and the paths washed down, Matt’s cake was ready.
I ran upstairs to get him some dry socks and found Kimchi on the bed, luxuriating on her back. You know the way cats sometimes become squirmy and slinky, almost flirtatious, as though they know exactly how beautiful they are? Her purr was louder than usual. I jumped on the bed for a monster cuddle. We butted heads. She stretched her whole body out as I stroked her from head to tail. She purred like a machine gun. It was bliss.
