And now, a picture of Albus, Merva, and Shog keeping warm by the fire (followed by silliness):
I note that Zelda's not at all happy about this development, but I'll make sure that she gets her spot back; as our tiniest and most ancient cat, she should have dibs. Miss Niamh has been bold enough to sit alone on the hearth lately, and it makes me happy to see her coming out of her shell.
In other news, Shog and I will be wrapping up our holidays with yet another of my oncological follow-ups. Fabulous timing, that. *rolls eyes* When we come home, the man wants to spend the afternoon moving the guest bed into the living room so that we can snuggle by the fire in comfort. He really wants to do it, and I admit that I'm intrigued, but . . . . Oh, hell! It's our house; we can be silly if we want to be. :P
ETA: My oncologist has given me the all clear! *dances*
Oh, dear. Shog has just asked me, "So how long have I been this bald?" I think he's seen the picture. (A long time, my love, a long time.) *goes to snuggle him; waves*
P.S. under the cut . . .
We're going to the emergency vet's office to pick up Barefoot's cremains. I know that Shog's upset about it but trying to cover because he was singing, after telling me that he knew it was too soon, "She's a cremaniac, cremaniac, in the urn . . ." (to the tune of Flashdance—which he also informed was originally supposed to be about a serial killer, which I knew). He's also just informed me that if I don't donate his body to science, he wants "Cremaniac" engraved upon his urn. His people are all about the puns, so I believe him—but I won't be doing that. *firm*