Get your filthy Persian paws away in Alexander’s name!

Here is our little Persian, Singh, gnawing on our Yule tree. I am tempted to name him Jörmungandr.

Here is our little Persian, Singh, gnawing on our Yule tree. I am tempted to name him Jörmungandr.

Singh is about 7 months old, and has been with our family for about 5. Do not be fooled by his magnanimous cuteness. He is a menace to all things sacred and pure. This unholy furball has learnt to jump on the altar at night and eat the consecrated goodies. Like most cats, he’ll chase anything that moves, unfortunately, including the veil that covers the shrine on windy days. Luckily, he hasn’t broken anything. I hope it stays that way.

Not unlike the ancestors of the people who bred his kindred to become menacing balls of adorable, he’s inherited a love for shiny things, earning him kinship with Fafnir and Smaug.

Hail, Singh the Golden, the Magnificent, the Stupendous!

Singh the Golden, the Magnificent, the Stupendous!

The Desolation of Singh.

The Desolation of Singh.

I know our Spirits are very kind and understanding, but I can’t help but feel embarrassed at my little brother’s behaviour. He is a constant pain in the arse and I hate his guts.

Okay, maybe I don’t. He has cunning way of saying sorry, that little rascal.

At the end of the day, Singh remains my little brother.

At the end of the day, Singh remains my little brother and I love him.