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Their banners gay were all won away
I am in Roslindale with the cats. Hestia is grooming herself in a spill of sunshine in the dining room. Autolycus is engaged in a life-or-death struggle with the balloon I gave him on Sunday. (It was my birthday balloon on Friday, but it is a better present for hunters.) He attempts to capture it by its ribbon and carry it off to his lair. Alas, it does not fit under the dining room table. Inevitably it gets away and bobs back to ceiling-height with temptingly dangling ribbon and he goes after it with teeth and claws again. Watching him determinedly tow the balloon around the apartment is adorable beyond words, especially when all I can see is the bright-foiled "Happy Birthday" lurking beyond the end of the table and occasionally a quick black paw darting up at the ribbon. I have told him so. He does need his claws trimmed, as does Hestia: the one time the balloon bobbed too near my arm in its escape, he drew blood. Small sacrifices.
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They are wonderful.
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I really will try to take pictures next time. I made an nest for Hestia with a cardboard box and a blanket from our old apartment and she rolled herself up in it like an adorable self-inflicted cat burrito.
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We did this with a twist of paper and the last balloon! The only catnip toys we have for them right now are catnip-stuffed denim feathers courtesy of
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He is a generous cat.
(I write this with one hand, since the other is currently engaged in cradling him against my shoulder as he purrs.)
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It was wonderful.