Memories Mutate

On this Sunday I reflect on the many Sundays over the past decade that I gave to volunteering at the local cat shelter, before finally “retiring” at Christmas.

I am back in 2002, the year I started there, and its summer that felt as if it would never end, sunny day upon sunny day like a stack of dominos waiting to fall in to a winter that just would not come.

Bubble and Squeak were two of my favourites, brown and white kittens of around three months old. Squeak really did squeak, demanding attention and bouncing with joy on to your knee. Bubble was quieter, hiding in the scratching post and timidly accepting attention with caution in his eyes.

Both were rehomed together, so I wonder how they are now at 12 years of age? I hope they, too, enjoy many memories of a happy life. I am sure I will still recall them at the end of mine, sitting staring out the window of a nursing home and musing on these feline frolics in the photo album of the mind. Will my memories mutate by then, embellished by the imagination of time? Or will Bubble and Squeak still be in my heart, as they were then?

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