A comfort blanket

A blanket is a blanket is a blanket. At least that's what humans believe. They have little or no respect for dogginess, the sweet fragrance, gently matured by the warmth of my belly and the sugary pads on my paws, each new day's layer of experience being lovingly sealed over that of the previous day. You see? Just thinking about my blanket transports me to that special place, the sweet cloud that is all mine and unique to me. The only exception to the preservation of this heavenly arrangement that I allow myself to contemplate is when She makes my bed; after all, if this was never done, my odour would permeate onto the bedding unevenly, not to mention the fact that it would be jolly uncomfortable.

I think I mentioned yesterday that the ginger one keeps taking liberties with my bed. However, today, he got what was coming to him. He and the stripy one were bundled into boxes and I know just what that means. The vet. Of course, I'm too big for a box and know how to behave in a car but I know that's where they went because I could smell it on the boxes from last time. Each one has an old jumper inside for them to sit on. And they must have done more than sit on them. A very unpleasant odour indeed. Of cat origin. Need I say more? I can only assume that things didn't go too well at the vets because the smell was even worse when they got back. Now tell me this: have those cats never heard the saying about having to lie in the bed you've made? This is where we differ. My bed smells beautiful and is to be savoured. Their jumpers are disgusting and if that's the way they carry on, I'm not surprised that they have no beds of their own in the house. But that's of little comfort to me when a certain ginger fellow squats in mine.