Coming home is great until you realise that the moles didn\u2019t go on holiday at the same time as me and seem to have taken over the garden. I\u2019m not sure if they have been using the pool whilst we were away but at least they couldn\u2019t use the children\u2019s pool toys, unless they found the key to where they are kept. They may have been playing tug with the rope I left outside, which is probably a worse thought, at least from my perspective.<\/p>\n
The worst bit of coming home is to find that nobody thought to bring me a present back from holiday. Not even a dog biscuit. You would think after a week away without me at least one of them would have thought about me. Except of course for my mistress who was as pleased to see me as I was her. She did say she would have preferred a week away just the two of us and to be honest I think she meant it. She still hadn\u2019t brought me a present but I forgave her instantly, as usual.<\/p>\n
It turns out that \u2018the kitten\u2019 that has moved in with Matilda is to be called Tigger, unless it is called Monty. It isn\u2019t often I start to feel sorry for a cat but I can\u2019t help thinking that the way he is going he is going to have a bit of an identity crisis. I have long thought that cats have a tendency to be schizophrenic, one minute they pretend to be all soft and cuddly and the next they would have your eye out given the chance, what chance will little Monty \/ Tigger have? I don\u2019t want to be around when he is old enough to realise how confused he is.<\/p>\n
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