Wednesday, 8 April 2015


My cat is a little version of a tiger, otherwise he is huge.
Anyway, my cat is my own private Richard Parker. He does not star in a film, he has not survived a wreckage or more than 100 days in the ocean, but he is my friend.
Recently I was asked why I liked cats, if I identify with them and yes, I do.
My first cat was a black brilliant beauty, a direct descendant of the Egyptian goddess Bastet, graceful, elegant, dignified and terribly proud, but loving and loved.
My second cat was a furry imitation of a white and black panda, lazy and totally careless, loved and terribly funny when kitty. He died quite young from unknown causes.
My third cat is this little tiger who is too large for a cat, so eager to be loved that he acts like a dog. Once muscular and handsome, almost sexy, he has now become like a lazy and totally in love husband who seems to drink too much beer, he has a belly and he's always behind me.
He slept by my side last night, silently purring, warming me or warming himself with me.
He receives me every night with incessant meowing about his day, maybe asking about mine or just nagging me, again, because I just feed him a cup of Whiskas a day or because I don't spend enough time playing with him or asking me if my lover isn't coming because you know, he likes that guy, he should spend more time home, or my daughter, when is she coming home again? What do I mean she's not coming again?
He then gets into the room, I still can't decide if it's mine or his and lies next to me watching the computer's screen or the TV. He just wants to lie his head on my arm or my shoulder, nowhere else, my arm or my shoulder, don't I get it? I should remain still and offer either an arm or a shoulder, is that asking too much?Sometimes he gets on the keyboard, sometimes he gets behind the screen where it's warm, and soon I can listen to his soft snoring, barely a wheezing sound that proves he's fast asleep, instead of running around, like a decent night prowler cat he ought to be.
 He's got a better sense of time than my alarm clock and besides, he doesn't let me hit the snooze. Around 6.30,  he starts demanding his cup of Whiskas and he doesn't stop until I get up and serve him a cupful. Then, he lets me rest another hour until he can't bear his thirst any longer. He recently discovered the wonder of tap fresh water and he parted forever with his water bowl. Now he just wants water direct from the tap, no more stagnant water. And so I have to wake, open the tap and wait for his catship to have his drink, Then I just grab him and throw him out of the bathroom. When I leave for work I utter proper goodbyes and promises of returning at night to him. He used to watch me lowering his head to a side, but now that I say goodbye, he eyes directly at me and purrs.
I wonder what he does all day home alone.

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