When Pushkin To Shove
About 1.30 last night there was a bunch of yowlings, and I knew that Pushkin, the street tart, was on the prowl again. I ignore it, but he clearly wasn't going to go away, and I figure I wouldn't sleep until he did. I went downstairs and unlocked and opened the front door, being careful not to expose myself to any people wandering back from Baa Baas. He was sitting in the Imp driveway, and sauntered across, as if he had all the time in the world.
Even when in the house, he didn't seem inclined to go to bed, so I left him to it, and half an hour later he finally joined me. He sat under the bed, in such a way that a squeaking noise came from my right and a pumping bicycle wheel came from the left. Clearly he was in the mood to scratch and purr. Eventually I did fall asleep, and he was still there at eight, for once showing no inclination to leave.
The time before last he got up before me and had clearly played with the bath mat. Cute. It was a damn sight less cute when I discovered he'd crapped on it. Still, right room, at least.
I went and stuck the washing on, and then he waited patiently by the front door. I think he may have left a couple of little friends behind last time, Monday night, when he followed me in. No itching so far, but you never know.
Oh, hold on.
Scratch.
Scratch scratch scratch.