My elderly cat appears to have changed, slowly and subtly, into a cunning device which emits a never-ending stream of urine at one end, and a never-ending stream of complaints at the other. So far, in 2011, she has proved remarkably inventive in her choices of where to pee.
I shouldn’t be too hard on her though. She’s elderly, and for complex reasons I cannot give her age more precisely than “about 19 years old” (although, of course, this year I shall have to start saying “about 20 years old”), and for the comfort and company she has given over the years, and continues to give, I can hardly be grudging of her laissez-faire attitude. It’s like living with an elderly relative who ran a bordello in Chicago in the 1920’s, and insists on telling you that Truman Capote was a far better host than you are.