It's been a while since Pearli has been in a pickle. I thought those days were over. Alas. Not.
She uses the Cats' Mother's house as a place to sleep. At night. But not all night. In summer, she will curl up at the top of the stairs under a "Do Not Disturb" sign. Long before dawn, she's gone. Again.
That means she and I rarely have a mother and daughter chat. That happens up the road where she spends time on another mother's stoep. Consequently, they talk more, and she - the other mother - alerted me to what I hadn't seen when Pearli's curled up.
She's lost the tip of her tail.
Gone.
It's a fresh wound. It's clean. She let me get close enough while she had her dinner and bedtime drink. It only seems to bother her if one wants to inspect it. Well, inspect I shall. She forgets that I survived her kittenhood pickles, so I have had more than a decade's practice.
I am grateful that the folk she chooses to visit keep an eye on her. Even though she'd prefer they didn't.
PS Although I hate winter, Pearli does curtail her nocturnal activities in favour of the Cats' Mother's duvet and body heat. Oh, and her evening spot at the fireside.
Until next time
Post script
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