It’s not what you think. In Britain, the place where you have your cats stay while you are away travelling is called a “cattery”. I kid you not. Even “The Pussy Willow Cattery” — which I drive past every time I go to the recycling center — really is for cats. No Burt Reynolds, no Dolly Parton, no far superior version of “I will always love you.”
Well, I never.
Our cats are here. I would write a really really useful post about how to bring your US cats over to the UK, but to be honest, all the rules have changed and instead of it being a long and horribly complicated process requiring special blood tests (F* you FAVN!), something called ‘tick and tape’ that is not a fun parade, and quarantine — now it’s just a matter of simple paperwork and buying the plane tickets. See: DEFRA and USDA. Or in my case, you could start the horribly long and expensive process (PS: F* you again FAVN), realize half way through that the rules were about to change, impose on your stateside family to take the cats for three months until the new rules went in to effect, and then pay an expediter to handle all the shipping arrangements. I can’t put myself out there as any kind of useful example.
They love the conservatory, just like I do:
I think I’m going to start calling my conservatory ‘the cattery’. I might get a little plaque for the wall. Hur hur hur.