Kitty Kitty

Our little house has a new resident, in the form of one half-Siamese flame point, half-tabby cat, formerly named Mr. Bigglesworth.  Well, he’s still named Mr. Bigglesworth (because who can change a cat’s name five years in) but due to his recent Houdini-esque antics (breaking into a closed closet three days running) and my relative dislike of Bigglesworth, it’s been amended to Mr. Harry Bigglesworth.  And given that he has a first and last name, he needed a middle.  The initial is F.  For f-ing.  Because cats, being cats, need a swearing-at occasionally.

So, internet, meet Harry F. Bigglesworth, Esq.  He’s a lovely boy, gets along reasonably well with Piper, is adored by the girls (although he doesn’t let them get too close) and spends 23.5 hours a day hiding in my closet, hiding in the craft room closet, or loitering out of dog-reach on the stairs above the baby gate.  He’s working on the mouse population (good kitty) and is out of Nanny J’s allergic husband’s way.  Win-win.

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