Their fault, not mine

It's all their fault, of course. How can you name a cat after a fierce Hungarian conductor and expect him not to resemble his namesake? How, indeed, can you expect any cat not to assume the role of head of the household? It's how we're programmed. We were sacred in Ancient Egypt and everyone had to do what we wanted. We kind of liked that.

I do wonder, as I settle on the bed for the morning, whether I'd have turned out differently if they'd called me Tigger or Gingie or something else equally daft. As things are, it is my role to conduct the house in an appropriate manner. And just now, it takes some doing. With the noises that emanate from that black thing with three legs in the front room, the way the blue-tube dragon takes over the house every Tuesday morning, occasional invasions from Artie who lives in the corner house and is bigger than me, not to mention the manic excitement over the apparent thrill of Jess having a book published (why does she bother? The house is full of the bloody things already), there's far too much going on here to permit the quiet, regular, cat's life that it's my mission to create.