My daughter had got herself a cat, a male, tortoise shell I believe it is called, she gave it a name "Sylvester ", but I learned to refer to it as F@#$^*! cat, I would be typeing away when it would suddenly launch an attack on my fore arm, sinking its razor sharp teeth into the skin, naturally my response would be to shake it off, causing even more damage and leaving a bloodied arm as evidence of the cats playfulness, it would hide around a corner and attack me as I passed, running up my leg with its razor claws, and once even tried to damage my unmetionables with a gash of its claws as it tried to climb higher.
During the day it would take over my bed and at night when I woke up I would see it rolled up in a ball at the bottom, not a bad arrangement if it would just stay there and sleep, but it had the habit of crawling up to my face and trying to suckle my ears, I learned to sleep with my head under the pillow.
In time we grew accustomed to each other and I would offer it little titbits and other tasty morsels, it took to warning me when it wanted the window open, and I came to expect it at the foot of my bed at night, often just giving it a rub on the back on my numerous trips to the loo at night .
I renamed it to catazooks, shying away from any obvious term of effection just so as it would know I am still the boss, and it would respond to that name, poking its head around the corner if I called it.
When I retired that night the cat was not on the bed, not to worry I thought, it will come in its own time, I made sure the window was open just wide enough to let it in, when I woke at twelve, it was not back yet and though I did not want to admit it I was worried, I looked around the flat to see if it did not maybe find another sleeping place.
When the sun rose the next morning I went looking for it, but it was nowhere to be found, I resigned myself to the fact that it was gone, images of a cat torn to shreds by dogs haunted me, or maybe, mercifully, a car would have flattened it.
As the day whore on I settled down in my routine, but there was something missing, there was an uneasiness gnawing at me, a sense of loss if you may. I made myself some food and put a morsel aside for the cat, quite by habit, but I could not get myself to throw it away, that would be like admitting that it was not coming back.
I resigned myself to the loss of the cat and was typing away when it slunk past me and reduced the contents of its food bowl followed by about half of its water bowl, it went and curled up on the bed, gave me one look and slept until about twelve that night, when it woke me with an enquiring purr and plonked down next to my head on the pillow.
No doubt the damn thing had been out all night chasing lady cats of ill repute and now it was resting.
Just a damn cat I suppose, but still a companion.
During the day it would take over my bed and at night when I woke up I would see it rolled up in a ball at the bottom, not a bad arrangement if it would just stay there and sleep, but it had the habit of crawling up to my face and trying to suckle my ears, I learned to sleep with my head under the pillow.
In time we grew accustomed to each other and I would offer it little titbits and other tasty morsels, it took to warning me when it wanted the window open, and I came to expect it at the foot of my bed at night, often just giving it a rub on the back on my numerous trips to the loo at night .
I renamed it to catazooks, shying away from any obvious term of effection just so as it would know I am still the boss, and it would respond to that name, poking its head around the corner if I called it.
When I retired that night the cat was not on the bed, not to worry I thought, it will come in its own time, I made sure the window was open just wide enough to let it in, when I woke at twelve, it was not back yet and though I did not want to admit it I was worried, I looked around the flat to see if it did not maybe find another sleeping place.
When the sun rose the next morning I went looking for it, but it was nowhere to be found, I resigned myself to the fact that it was gone, images of a cat torn to shreds by dogs haunted me, or maybe, mercifully, a car would have flattened it.
As the day whore on I settled down in my routine, but there was something missing, there was an uneasiness gnawing at me, a sense of loss if you may. I made myself some food and put a morsel aside for the cat, quite by habit, but I could not get myself to throw it away, that would be like admitting that it was not coming back.
I resigned myself to the loss of the cat and was typing away when it slunk past me and reduced the contents of its food bowl followed by about half of its water bowl, it went and curled up on the bed, gave me one look and slept until about twelve that night, when it woke me with an enquiring purr and plonked down next to my head on the pillow.
No doubt the damn thing had been out all night chasing lady cats of ill repute and now it was resting.
Just a damn cat I suppose, but still a companion.
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