Felix. Or as I seem to say at least once each day, ‘Poor old Felix.’
I suspect after sixteen years together, it’s too late to overcome the emotional gaps between Felix and the other two. Despite his name, he’s often sad or angry, and dissensions arise that seem to be ‘Felix’s fault’ but actually go a long way back and originate in the alliance between Mystic and Fluff. *Sigh*.
Fortunately he’s well and busy – he’s physically the fittest of them all, he loves to be out in the garden and since I’ve ensured that he gets to eat all of his own meals in a separate room, he’s bright and strong. He seems to know I at least am on his side, although he continues to feel he could do with more cuddles. At least once a day he’ll come into the room, eye whichever of the other cats is on my lap, and turn away with a resigned look. Only once or twice since they arrived have I been able to engineer a joint cuddle, by means of smuggling Fluff into my arms while Felix sleeps obliviously on my lap.
He has a solemn look, does Felix, and is always very busy. He has the garden to supervise and protect, and he obviously wonders how we all think we would get on if it wasn’t for him taking care of business. When he finally reaches my lap he starts off sitting bolt upright facing me, and staring meaningfully into my eyes, as if to say something deep – maybe, ‘Life’s a puzzle, isn’t it?’ or ‘What a state the world’s in, Ma.’
It’s nice to see him finally relax and curl neatly up for a snooze. I keep the others off so that he can get his just reward for all his hard work. Sweet boy.