I'm not dead...

Yet.

I thought I'd be taking Mr Pitt for a ceremonial swim to the sea with the salmon this morning. He had a HUUGE fit which confused us all - we (I include Betty who thought all her Christmases had come at once and joined in with gusto) thought he'd suddenly started playing. Mr Pitt doesn't play. He hides, sleeps and wails for food, takes a mouthful, lets Betty eat the rest and then wails for more. That is the sum total of his existence. This morning I came down to the kitchen to see him hurtling around. And then the spasms started. And the limbs at weird angles. And the frothing.

And then he looked very very dead. So I went and had a shower and planned the funeral and the search for Herbert Kitten. But when I came downstairs to wrap him up ready for his last journey in the shopping trolley, he was waiting for me at the food bowl, wailing.

Herbert Kitten will have to wait a little while longer.



PS When he does die, if anyone sends me that bloody rainbow poem - they'll be swimming with the fishes too...

PPS Thank you to Flossy and Def and X for their pragmatic dark, dark humour this morning. Also to Lindy who dropped off some ironing and offered me the services of her husband to save me a trip to the vet when I decide the time is right. Mr Lindy was called Tony. He's now called Mr Soprano.