Uh huh. We're back, and, after two months with daughter, so is His Nibs. He managed to get me up more than an hour ago, by partly devious means. You see, he divested himself of a hairball for the second time in one night. The first was at five o'clock, and I found the second at 8:00. By the time I cleaned it up, I was ... well, I was up. He was also frenetically anxious for his morning tuna by then, and I hadn't the heart to put him off any longer — not after him becoming used to receiving it by about 6:30 a.m. at daughter's house. So, if there had been any doubt of my up-ped-ness before descending the stairs, turning up the heat, and feeding His Royal Self, there was no doubt of my up-ped-ness after all of that.
But you see in the picture that I just took, he is now back in bed, or at least on bed. My side of the bed, I'm afeered. I am not his favourite human in the house, you know. That honour is bestowed upon Cuppa. However, for reasons only fathomed by superior cat brains everywhere, he prefers sleeping at my feet. It's so silly really. I am six inches taller than my beloved, and I am in much greater need of foot room than she, but every night he makes for my side of the bed. Sometimes I move him, but he finds his way back. Sometimes I move him twice, but ... well you know what. I mean to say that it can't be all that pleasant for him, for he must surely suffer greater disturbance down there by my feet than he would by Cuppa's. But he persists.
Despite the two pukings, despite the necessity of banishing him from the bedroom for prancing on our heads at three o'clock, and despite the inconvenience of having him hunker down by my feet, I'm right chuffed to have him back after his stay at Butterfly's house. Pets are great, and The Rocks is a great pet — even if he's back in bed on a Saturday morning and I'm not!