The cats are growing. George is still sneezing occasionally but is getting bigger and stronger every day. Charlie is also growing, but less quickly. We’re consulting with the vet and will have more information on that in a few days.

They’ve been tearing up the house and they want to play all the time. The other morning, between breakfast and lunch, we played foil ball, then chase-the-red-dot (laser pointer), then hurtle about the place chasing the feather on a fishing line, then eat the shoelaces, then steal a piece of roast beef, then paper ball (well, actually, first they played knock the wastebasket over, then recycling bag, then paper ball…). After that it was destroy the sunglasses, followed by round 2 of paper ball, and round 2 of foil ball. At which point Charlie thought it might be a fine idea to knock all the candles off the counter, subdue the microwave, and murder the catnip mouse. When I made lunch they watched the water.

CHARLIE: What is it?
GEORGE: I don’t know.
CHARLIE: Should we hit it?
GEORGE: I don’t know.
CHARLIE: Right. We’ll just watch it for a while.
GEORGE: Okay.
CHARLIE: And then hit it.

The family motto certainly seems to be becoming clear: Hit it, or put it in your mouth.

At lunch time we all rested. After which they played king-of-the-condo, followed by watch the water again, then hit the water, bite the water, sneeze, and fall off the sink. Then of course there was nothing for it but to fall into the toilet and dash about soaking wet for a while. At which point it seemed to me that discretion was the better part of valour, and I retired to the kitchen deck and left the house to their tender ministrations. George, of course, was not happy about being left behind and decided to seek an alternative escape route.

They are in serious learning mode. Just in the last week their hunting methods have changed. Instead of running madly back and forth after Feather, they have taken to lying in wait behind bits of furniture to ambush it on appearance. George is developing impressive ball control when we play pawball. Charlie and I sometimes play Feather badminton: I prop the stick into the back cushion of the sofa, then we sit, one at each end, batting Feather back and forth while George perfects his aikido rolls over the foil ball on the carpet.

They seem to have passed through the chase-their-own-tail stage already, though are still fascinated by each other’s…

They continue to approach the world from different perspectives. Charlie might be smaller and more fragile but he’s a fearless explorer. He has no idea George weighs 30% more than him and tends to regard him as an annoying little brother. George, on the other hand, ponders everything deeply before doing.

Charlie strides through the sun like a young god.

For George, the day is grey and full of uncertainties

Sometimes, though, they simply sleep companionably while giving the impression that they’re quite grown up. I know better. They’re simply gathering the energy for another mammoth assault on all they don’t yet know.

Sloth = growth. George (top) and Charlie (bottom) dream of future destruction