That cats love playing. It's their favourite thing to do bar eating and sleeping. They have a habit of jumping through the cat flap and racing around the house and pawing at the back patio door to be let in. And then the cycle starts again. They love having their bellies rubbed and jumping in the bed at 6 in the morning, wet, soggy and covered in twigs and seeds. And they love hunting.
Rhubarb the fat hunts stale moudly bread. She's very brave. And feathers. Never forget the feathers as she tries to claim that she grabbed them off the back of a passing eagle. She'll strop if you don't praise her. In complete opposite, Custard, the dirty stop out, hunts things. Dead mice, live mice - she even brought in a dead Robin which made me cry and shat on Christmas. Last night, it was a live mouse. A stupidly fat large mouse.
Because she caught him three times.
Three times she came in and three times we ran around the living room - Girlpants to catch and wifey with the dettol. I held the cats back by cunningly locking the cat flap and Girlpants released the rodent and we refused to let the animals out for a while. Fast forward ten minutes later, and once again, Custard comes triumphantly in. With mouse and tell tale marks of capture on it's tail. Only this time, it's under the sofa. Joy! We go through the capture, hold back and detol experience, then settle on the sofa again, as it is late. Fast forward another ten minutes later, and it all starts again. With the same mouse! This time, Girlpants trudged to the back of the square to the fields as I disinfected for England so the cats wouldn't find it. Shattered, we both went to bed.
Whilst Rhubarb stayed in the dry, watching us all and laughing.