The Book Goddess Reads

Kate’s Foreward

I promise I’ll keep this bit brief, because I know none of you are really here to hear from me. I just thought I’d come on to quickly explain whats been going on and where Smudge has been.

For the first time in a long time, I can happily say… Smudge Sundays are back.

If you’ve been wondering where they’ve disappeared to, the short answer is that life got in the way. Or rather, one very small cat did. What started as a few minor concerns quickly turned into a steady stream of vet visits, monitoring, and late-night Googling of symptoms I probably should have left well enough alone. Smudge, meanwhile, remained entirely unimpressed by the entire process and made it very clear that he did not appreciate being poked, prodded, or placed on yet another “life-changing” diet.

The last few months have revolved around blood tests, ultrasounds, specialist diets, and the ongoing challenge of trying to convince Smudge that expensive prescription food really is edible and not, in fact, an elaborate human prank. There were days of trial and error, moments of frustration, and more than a few instances of me sitting on the kitchen floor bargaining with a cat who was absolutely not interested in my negotiation skills. Worry became a constant background noise—far more than I’d care to admit—and every small change in his behaviour felt disproportionately significant.

The good news?

He’s doing so much better now. Properly, noticeably better. The kind of better that makes you realise how tightly you’d been holding your breath without even noticing.

And now that he’s back to supervising my reading sessions with his usual level of judgmental intensity (and shouting for breakfast at 5 a.m. as though he has never been fed in his entire life), I think it’s only fair that I let him explain where he’s been…

Greetings loyal subjects

I have been informed that some of you have been asking where I’ve been.

Firstly, I’d like to make it very clear that I have been here the entire time.

Secondly, I have been extremely busy supervising my human.

She has spent an unreasonable amount of time worrying about me, researching cat food, discussing my digestive system with complete strangers, and watching me eat as though she’s David Attenborough observing a rare species.

Frankly, it’s been exhausting. 

Apparently I lost weight. Humans became very concerned. There were many indignities. Needles. Ultrasounds. Foods that claimed to be delicious and were, in fact, lies. One of them tasted suspiciously of disappointment.

I have also been placed on what they call a “strict diet,” which I suspect is code for “we have removed joy from your life.” I am not allowed any treats. How will I know I’ve been a good boy without treats? I have, after all, been on several holidays, which I tolerated with great dignity despite the unfamiliar smells and the absolute lack of my preferred sleeping chair.

Someone even commented on my unfortunate haircut. I would like to state for the record that I did not consent to this “summer trim,” and I am still processing the emotional damage.

IBD, as I understand it, stands for “I Begin Dramatically” whenever my insides decide to become a topic of human concern. The symptoms, according to their frantic whispering, include weight loss (rude), inconsistent appetite (completely normal for a refined palate), and various… digestive irregularities that I will not dignify with detail.

They ran tests. Many tests. Blood was taken, which I found deeply unnecessary, and there were scans where I had to lie still while they stared at me like I was a very small, very judgmental mystery. The results, confusingly, were both “inconclusive” and “strongly suggestive,” which I believe is human for “we are fairly sure but would like more paperwork.”

During one blood test, the nurse informed my human that I had “identified as liquid.” I would like to correct the record: I was not liquid. I was hot. And deeply opposed to being poked with a stick and having my blood stolen for science.

There was even talk of a biopsy, which sounded alarmingly like a dramatic overreaction to what I maintain is simply a sensitive stomach and a sophisticated relationship with food. I overheard the word “surgery,” at which point I must ask: why surgery when you can simply eat something better and see if the problem resolves itself? This seems like a far more elegant solution.

In the meantime, I continue to be monitored, admired, and occasionally poked, while I insist—politely but firmly—that I am fine, I am just particular, and I would very much like a snack.

I should also acknowledge the many kind humans who have apparently been asking after me.

Your concern has been noted and is greatly appreciated.

Should you wish to express this concern in the traditional feline manner, I recommend opening a packet of treats.

(Please do not do this around my human, and under absolutely no circumstances tell her I suggested it. She has already wrestled something out of my mouth once this month, and I have no desire to relive that particular indignity.)

Thank you for your discretion.

In conclusion, I remain vigilant, slightly offended, and perpetually hungry. I shall now return to my very important duties of supervising reading sessions, occupying whichever chair my human was about to sit in, and reminding everyone that breakfast should begin promptly at 5 a.m.

If you’ll excuse me, I believe my human has opened a book without first obtaining feline approval.

Yours, as always,

Smudge 🐾