he coulda died

Meet Max: couch-goitre:


The other day we had builders around, to (finally) start in on repairing the damage from the June 8 not-a-cyclone. Max did not cope well with the strange men trafficking in bangs and clatters. He had to find a secure place to hide — hence, under the couch throw.

This is how he used to hide from the girl-cat, back when she was still sufficiently bigger than him that she could kill him, and seemed hellbent on trying.

Unfortunately, I broke the spell of the couch-throw by lifting it up to take a photo:


(What? There is no other news. Not today. Move along, nothing to see here.)

3 thoughts on “he coulda died

  1. Aw, he's such a pretty little wussy cat…

    Sam and Sophie haven't particularly enjoyed all the banging around in boxes I've been doing. They sit in my doorway, looking at me as if to say, "when are you going to stop this nonsense and let us up on your bed?"

    Sam in particular hates it. He wags his tail frantically, like "ILOVEYOUCANICOMEIN" then I touch a box and he's all "OHITHINKIHEARSOMETHINGOUTSIDE" and runs away.

  2. 🙁 Sam is going to hate it more when he realises what the boxes are really for.

    My cats would be ecstatic. They love boxes. Boxes are for games of jumping jack ambush, donchaknow?

  3. Actually, Sam might not notice. What with me disappearing to Japan, funky shifts, him having to sleep with mum every nightshift- I'm not a partciularly regular doggy mum.

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