The cat is sick. As yet undiagnosed. She's not eating. She's vomited too, and uncharacteristically shat in the house, not once but several times, and in a relatively short period of time. Her preference now is for solitude over her recently acquired "social nature". If her condition continues, it's off to the Vet, though hopefully, that won't be necessary. Personal experience tells me, for animals of advanced age, such symptoms suggest the end is nigh, and much money, along with prodding and poking by the "experts", serves nothing except perhaps to salve one's conscience. But I mustn't get ahead of myself. Maybe this time, it will pass.
To accommodate Rosie's ague, the backdoor is left open, allowing her to come and go as she pleases. Meanwhile, I sit in the lounge, in direct line of the through-draught created. My legs are frozen. From my vantage point I see her, settled on the conservatory floor, a folded blanket her bed. She stares back at me. Inscrutable. If only she could speak.
I'm wondering, why do I have the central-heating on? There is no benefit, unless that is, I choose to go upstairs in the much smaller back bedroom. But then I can't monitor Rosie. Should I then turn the heating off, thereby saving money? But that supposes the temperature will not lower, but what if it does? Outside it claims to be 10C, but it feels much colder inside, certainly around the lower legs. I don't know what to do, so I'll do nothing. So much for rationality. In my defence, I shall assert rational persons are uninteresting. Does that make me interesting?
Rosie moved, slowly, and I fancy, shakily, towards her drinking bowl. She lapped awhile, raised her small head towards me and mewed. I squeezed a little food out of a pouch, into a a saucer. She briefly stared, about turned, and walked back to her bed. If only she could speak.