The psychotic one has lost the plot. It has been raining here, raining hard enough to float Noah's ark. Iss likes rain, but not the sort of rain we've been having, the sort that thunders down like a heavenly waterfall turning the paths into gushing rivers & the garden into a lake.
I keep a litter tray inside for him but like all my cats Iss prefers to go outside & has his regular times when he expects to be let out & I will find him sitting patiently beside a door waiting hopefully for someone to notice.
Beside the door is where I found him yesterday morning.
'You won't like it, boy,' I warned him as I opened the door.
He didn't. He stuck a cautious nose around the door & surveyed the downpour in disgust, gingerly picked his way down the sodden steps & along the path ~ a whole 3 cats steps, hesistated amidst the swirls of gushing water, turned tail & shot back up the steps & through the door so fast his wet paws skidded along the wooden floor.
Iss had serious cabin fever. All day he bounced at people, shaking himself like a fluffy mop, begging to be played with, rubbed & tumbled & cosseted & petted, fed tidbits & chatted to.
Sometime last night the rain stopped. When I let Iss out he surveyed the sunshine with smug satisfaction & meandered down the steps with an arrogant waggle of his rear end, king again of his small domain. I haven't seen him since. The air is rich with that fresh rainwashed smell & golden with sunshine. The birds are delirious with joy; all's right with Iss' world.