I apologise for the previous photo’s lack of a feline presence. This is from the same batch, in which my glorious gargantuan ginger master is snoring and ignoring our distressingly mismatched interior decoration.
He was six years older than me, thus a stately teenaged cat at this time. He died at 19 and may or may not have been my very first experience with Stockholm Syndrome. No, no, he didn’t bite that hard. I mean, I didn’t bleed that much. I mean, I didn’t get that many tetanus shots. I mean, look, ginger purrdy!
