This is my cat, Heidi. Heidi is not stupid. Heidi never wanted to run a marathon. Heidi isn't having a mid-life criss and trying to somehow prove her worth to the uncaring world by plodding round 26.2 miles of Manchester and Heidi worked that out without even going to Manchester; I lived there for four years so I really should know better.
Heidi knows that January is a month for being on the sofa, fast asleep, paws twitching, fangs sticking out, dreaming about chasing rabbits, or birdies, or possibly mice. Heidi knows that January is not a month for tired feet on the end of equally tired legs to be crammed into big luminous hard trainers to go out in the cold and run around the streets for no reason other than "because the plan told me to". Heidi doesn't care about plans. Heidi knows that when she's tired she should lie back, get comfy, and attempt to be adorable enough to get strokes and titbits brought to her as she snoozes the day away. Heidi is in fact very good at this.
I'm becoming increasingly certain that every time I drag myself out for a run my tiny kitteh gives me a "oh, poor foolish human, what are you doing now?" look, before she sighs, tucks her head back under her paws, and goes back off to sleep.
This week I am tired. I would like to be as smart as Heidi, but apparently I am not.
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