A four hour train ride later, walking to our little B&B in Edinburgh we was exhausted.
Far away from our own cats, starved of furry lovin’, we were parched for anything feline.
By the good graces of the universe as we stumbled through the streets I spotted in the distance a majestic creature.
Or rather, he spotted me.
But who could it be?
Now aware that I was in the company of a king, I reasoned that this benevolent monarch had to come to greet his serfs.
He really wanted me to pet him.
He could not wait.
And furthermore, he needed to know our worthiness; he needed to know our deepest desires and fears — WHAT made us worthy of the gifts he would bestow upon us?
Haggis, as we discovered his name to be — via nametag, hidden underneath all that fur — was an absolute softy, in every sense.
That mane was the softest poof of cloud, fit for a cherub — which of course, Haggis is.
A scream of delight, I swear.
He is of the finest specimens of fur.
Well, it just so happens that I am obsessed with the cat.
After we left Haggis for the night I thought of nothing but him (…husbands can only do so much). And so I went searching for him again the next morning, beckoning, “Haggis? Hagggggiisssss?” with all the dignity one can search for a cat that doesn’t belong to you in a foreign country.
We were just about to turn back and get going, we had our bags packed, we had a train to catch, we were leaving.
But by divine providence, there he was once again, out of nowhere.
You dare wake me?
Yeah, okay, shower me with love while I try not to resent it.
This is the look of love.
Above all, Haggis is the King.