In the summer of 2005 I lost the lovely Harriet to cancer. 

Harriet

 A series of tumours defied all the vet’s efforts; after each operation more sprang up, resembling mushrooms in a field.  She left a lost and pathetic 12 year old son, Alfie,  who exchanged yelling for Mother to indignant growls at the advent of Jane.  From orphan to Victor Meldrew in one outraged hiss.

Alfie

 Jane has been a real reminder of what kittens are actually like – one forgets, over time!  She has tangled herself in the lace curtains,  savaged the plants and knocked over the ornaments, besides leaving me with a few scars.  In short, adorable. 

Jane

Of course, both she and Alfie were single kitten litters, and the Only Child Syndrome is strong in each.  They are now fairly evenly matched. She teases, he retaliates.  They chase, hurl insults and share a bed.  Favourite game to date:  ambush!

When Jane was a year old, it became obvious that the now elderly Alfie wasn’t interested in playing all the time, so I adopted another kitten from Jane’s previous family.  Same mother, and, judging by the family likeness between Hannibal’s sister, Tonia (Catatonia!) and Jane, the same father, too. 

You see them entangled in sibling affection, or is it rivalry, and playing king/queen of the castle.  Alfie maintained  a resigned and dignified distance, but unbent sufficiently to share  mealtimes. 

The adult Hannibal appears with concertina case and cushions, and Jane with computer.  Very clued up, my pets.  Hannibal, incidentally, was named not after the hero of the Pyrenees (if I gave him an elephant, would he eat it or ride it?), but the infamous Dr.Lector, the link being a 16^th C poem on a cat and its lutestring relatives which the beast ate….   As far as I know, there is no mention of them having been washed down with Chianti.

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