Busy, busy, busy.
“You! Out of the way!”
Chchchch…! went the cat – but it also buggered off to the kitchen.
Now, where was that damn thermos flask? I wanted to take the girlfriend to the park – and I wanted to bring cocktails, so I needed something to keep them cold…
I also needed to put on another rain song. When you want to go on a picnic, you need to play or sing lots of rain songs. You don’t want the Gods to suspect you’ve actually planned for something outdoors. Gods are like cats: you can’t trust Them. They think only of Themselves, They’re fickle and They like to torture smaller creatures. (And yeah, we are indeed very much built in Their own image. Don’t beat it: sometimes it helps sussing Them out.)
Ah, perfect: that old song. And there was the thermos, cowering among the books on my shelves.
“Gotcha!”
“Fuck.” said the thermos.
It doesn’t like cold drinks. It claims ice-cubes hurt its linings. Tough. Now what? Yes. Feed the cat. I had to keep the little monster happy for at least another day. Then the girlfriend would go back to Tokyo again. Till that dreaded moment I wanted peace and quiet. Afterwards, I probably wouldn’t care much, one way or the other, for quite a while. So, time to feed the brute.
Chchchchch…! went the cat, when I entered the kitchen, still annoyed that I’d chased it out of the living-room.
“Oh, get over it.” I said, “What do you want: fish or liver?”
“Don’t care. I’ll get you for all of this! See if I don’t.”
“Or I can swap you for two goldfish, a talking elephant, or a cute, little rat…”
I put the cat’s dinner in its bowl. When it started to do unspeakable things to the food, I went back to the living-room.
Right: got cocktails, got food; got the blanket, two cushions; got plates and glasses… Okay. Time to relax a bit, till the girlfriend came back from yet another cultural round-up. After a while the cat came back into the living-room and sat down on my newspaper.
“You, sir, are a nuisance.”
Prrrt.
“I was reading that…”
Prrrt…
“Some story about a girl writing with George Harrison’s mum. Can you imagine: here she is – hot for some Beatle. She sends him locks of pubic hair, or underwear or some such and then his bloody mum writes back to her… ”
Prrrt…!!!
The cat couldn’t care less. It wanted to be stroked, and scratched behind its ears. So, I stroked the cat, and scratched it behind its ears. It was a very peaceful period, enjoyed by all. Till the cat spotted some invisible adversary somewhere in the room. It used me as its launching pad, drawing some blood and hurled itself at the curtains, destroying two flower pots. Then it ran through the room for a few minutes, hissing like mad, its fur a-blazing, before sitting down again (on my newspaper), where it calmly started to lick its left paw.
“That hurts” I complained, licking my own bloody paw.
“Johnny Cash hurts” the cat said; “You are a sissy.”
After that, another spell of peace and quiet.
I told myself again that, after the girlfriend had left, I might very well book myself a room, for a week, in a certain hotel. To do a bit of self-indulgent grieving, to be sure, but mostly to get away from the cat. It was either that or a midnight visit to the nearest canal, with a sack and a few stones – for the cat or for me.
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