In the dead of an Ontario winter, there isn’t much for a housecat to do but take in another performance of the Squirrel Show, followed by a bout of bird lust and yet another long snooze. Watson did indeed clobber another misguided mouse the other day, but he spends most of his time in a basket on top of a heat vent in the parlour.

Now well past their seventh birthday, Watson and Isobel are now middle-aged pussies, and the vet has started clucking about Watson’s weight, now about 17 pounds. He still jumps with apparent ease, but not as often or as eagerly as he did in his youth, and it’s a long time since he flung himself into my arms straight up from the floor. Isobel, on the other hand, is as slender and nimble as ever. Her concession to age is domination of my lap, whenever I park my butt in the comfy chair. With the whole province locked down, whole days pass like that.