Today is our oldest cat Buffy’s 19th birthday.
She’s always been about as independent as a cat can be. She’s quite mad. She’s been living with an overactive thyroid for six years. She increasingly roars when she can’t find us (the vet thinks that’s dementia).
Despite being house-trained when we got her from the cat sanctuary, she elects to wee on the carpet all around the house purely as an act of devilment. Tonight she inhaled a can of tuna.
As the only girl cat left with three boys, she brooks no shit.
I have no idea what any of this should tell us about life, but she’s still beautiful and lovely and we’re lucky to have her.
Happy birthday, Madness.
Try not to lick it 