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The ritualistic evening meal
in "Catsville" typically
starts like this...

Feeding Time in "Catsville"....


 

...involves a flurry of "underfeet" manoeuvres,
recklessly executed to the sound of Oscar's
intensely passionate soprano rendition of
Joe Jackson's "Baby, You're My Meat"...

 

...which, from the moment the plates hit the floor,
subsides to a tinkling duet of catflap magnets and
metal name tags against porcelain softened by
contented feline masticatory murmurs...
*Mmmm... peace reigns...*

The "kids" are nearly two years old in these shots.   And yes, they've discovered birds and mice in the past six months.  They drag them in through the cat flap and if I'm lucky, arrange them conspicuously on the white shag-pile Flokati in rigamortis-stricken poses, or as vaguely distinguishable, pink-edged parts.  Feathers adrift under the dining room table are a sure sign of recently departed birdlife, whereas stringy tails and miniscule ears bear witness to the demise of a rodent.  If I'm not so lucky, the offerings are delivered live.

To turn back the clock to the "sweet innocence of kittenhood" you can still visit Osc and Luce as they were at 12 Weeks, 6 Months and 12 Months.

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