Said Shakespeare, in the know, as usual.
This is Russell.
Looking as if butter wouldn’t melt, a look he has perfected effortlessly. He is easily the most laid back cat I have ever encountered, except that, being long and large (no one is sure what his mother mated with, opinions range from escaped leopard to Scottish wild cat) he is fond of his grub.
He comes when whistled for because whistles mean grub. I have never whistled without filling the bowl the minute he hoves into view, which he always does, usually at a trot, frequently across the busy main road, which leaves my elderly neighbour, Ted, clutching at his quadruply bypassed heart. You don’t have to whistle long, which is handy because my grandmother insisted that: Whistling women and crowing hens are neither use to God nor men, so I am not very good at it, not having had the practice in childhood. Anyhow, I whistle, badly, Russell comes, quickly. End of.
Except that yesterday he didn’t.
I last saw him mid morning as I set off for the shops to buy the right kind of cat food because they’ve gone off the tuna. So I returned with tins of chicken and ham (what is this, the Ritz?) (yes, if you’re a cat) and whistled.
Cleo came in a rush and alone.
So I fed her and then whistled some more, so she had to be fed again. So I left some down for him, which she ate, then I whistled again, so, as she’d finished, I had to feed her again. So, before she exploded, I went and sat down in the garden.
Teatime, I whistled, she arrived looking worried, I fed her, I put his down, I whistled she ate it, I put down more. We had tea. She and I strolled up the road whistling (me) and running up and down the drives looking (her). At one point we looked in an open van which turned out to have a very barky dog in it and we both nearly joined Ted on the heart attack list.
Then the other half (who does not like cats but likes Russell because he’s not like a cat – either of them) walked out and went along three local roads looking for a run-over Russell but found nothing. Then we watched a film, then I whistled, fed Cleo, whistled fed Cleo, whistled fed Cleo, whistled and told Cleo if she had anymore she’d be sick in the night, (she was, on the landing) then I went to bed.
I woke every hour to worry and finally fell asleep at five and dreamed of cats drowning in swimming pools. So at six I got up and had a cup of tea and worried about cats locked in sheds, squashed cats dying in shrubs, cats accidentally barbequed, cats who can open lever door handles (he has nearly perfected the skill) shutting themselves in rooms, cats who can run along fences slipping off and impaling themselves, pruned cats, mowed cats and immobilised cats with poorly paws plaintively crying ‘Mummy!’ in a high pitched squeak (musically he’s like a sort of Demis Russos in fur.)
Then I got up and drafted the letter to circulate to the neighbours asking them to look and explaining Russell’s door opening abilities and his trusting nature. Then I got showered and then I walked into my bedroom and there he was sitting on the windowsill.
Whole, undamaged and horizontally laid back. The git.
So I fed him breakfast twice and now I shall go and sleep in the garden all afternoon.
So, how did you spend your solstice?
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JaneLaverick.meow