I’d better make something very clear here. I’m not being cutesy in a nauseating cat owner sort of a way when I say that he started talking to me. I don’t mean that he made mewing sounds that could be construed as human speech (after a bit of aural squinting). No, no, not at all. He spoke. To me. Using actual words.
I realise at this point that you may feel that I’m pushing your willing suspension of disbelief somewhat. I have, after all, just given a hefty disclaimer about the ludicrousness of holding a conversation with an extremely dead comic actor only to follow it up with a claim about a chatty pet but, quite frankly (and I mean no disrespect), I couldn’t give a stuff what you think. You’re not the one with a talking cat.
It was a Tuesday when it all started. I can say this with some degree of certainty as Peter Sellers and I are creatures of habit. Tuesday is curry night (for me) and tin of tuna night (for him). We live alone (seems like an oxymoron, I know, but saying “I live alone” seems dismissive of Peter Sellers and saying “we live together” implies an altogether unwholesome aspect to our relationship) and the routine of the weeknight gives a comfort and familiarity after the daily grind of the working day.
As it was curry night, I placed my usual order with the Regal Kerala. I was greeted with the traditional “Is that Mr Henry?” when I reached the dhania green chicken part of the order which indicates two things - 1) I’m possibly the only person who actually orders that dish; and 2) I order from the Regal Kerala far too frequently if they recognise me by my order. Curry ordered, the ceremonial opening of the tuna tin for His Nibs then took place (it’s the tea towel draped over the arm that makes it really rather fancy). As an additional treat while we await the arrival of curried comestibles, Peter is allowed to lick the lid clean of any remaining fishy residue.
“I do hope that sir enjoyed his apperitif,” I said, disposing of the lid once it had been scrubbed clean of any remaining tuna at a molecular level.
“You know, you shouldn’t order so many dishes for one person,” said Peter, head tilted in that slightly quizzical catlike way he has as he looked up at me.
I froze. My brain seemed to lock in place. I could clearly a picture a spinning beachball of death whirring away somewhere inside as processes were attempted resulting only in failure. It wasn’t that usual cat owner thing of hearing a meow-like sound which resembled a word (usually “hello”) and passing it off as human speech. This was a fully formed sentence. Also, I’d been looking at him the whole time and his mouth had moved as he spoke. Admittedly, it hadn’t quite seemed to move fully in time with the words (much like a cheap 1960s family film) but there was no mistaking that the small tabby cat had definitely gone with something other than the standard cat-style noises. I herded my dangerously wobbling mental faculties into a corner and cobbled together a response.
“What? Er… what?” OK, I didn’t say it was an erudite response. Look, you try and come up with a pithy bon mot when your previously mute pet has suddenly decided to break silence.
“You’re not getting any younger, man. You could stand to lose a few pounds.” Peter idly licked a paw and ran it over his head a few times before returning his gaze to me.
“You can talk!”
“Yeah, and so far, mate, I’m carrying this conversation. Doing the lion’s share, as it were.”
I stared at him.
“That’s cat humour, by the way. Feel free to laugh.”
It seemed at this point that two “whats” and an “er” were all that I stored up in the conversational arsenal so I decided to stick with just staring. Peter sighed and moved out of the kitchen.
“Come over here and sit down,” he called as he slinked his way into the sitting room. Thankful for some concrete instructions to work upon, my brain happily complied.
To Be Continued
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