He's warm and relaxed, sitting on my lap, flitting his tail expressively (very George, that) as I stroke him from head to rump. Under my hand, it feels just like George's fur felt: soft, thick.
In the real world he's still dead, I don't forget that. But we are getting this special chance to visit together, outside of time and space.
George front, Pushkin back, April 2009:
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