the floofy critter . . .

I'm cat-sitting an adorably handsome ball of feline awesomeness, and noticing that indoor cats are like toddlers. (My last cat critter delivered rabbits daily and once caught a ferret - this is a whole new level of pampered puddytat.)

Eat, shit, yowl, repeat.

He loves people but, like any toddler, misses his mom at night. His first night here, he sang the song of his people all night, loudly. Fewer hours the second night, but he's very vocal. By the third day he had me trained - he yowls and I leap out of bed (because it's mainly in the dead of night) to check his water and food bowls are full, and his litter box is empty of what he does so often. To reassure you, none of those chores have not been done, so we then sit on the edge of the bed while he tells me I don't look after him as well as his mom did. Because . . .

He also thought it was a self-serve restaurant and I woke to disemboweled wet food pouches (he prefers the gravy to the meat) and gravy paw prints everywhere. He denied all knowledge.

Having dealt to the wet food, he chewed his way into two sacks of dry food. The kitty food is now on lockdown, but behind a glass door so he occasionally tries to get to it. I'm pleased the glass is stronger than he is. Not because there's no food in his bowl, he just seems to think the other option must taste better.

His last accommodation was at least twice the size of my apartment, so sometimes he just yowls at the front door as if he thinks I'm hiding some rooms out there.

Today, Day 8, my cleaner came. He doesn't like the vacuum cleaner but quite likes the mop. I'm worried he might get high on the Pine Sol. He seems to think she's okay after being initially unsure.

I have visitors arriving from Shanghai tonight and wonder whether he will approve. I'd hate to make them sleep on the street . . .