“How old are you, Henry?” asked the feline in question.
“Thirty six. Thirty seven in a couple of months.”
“Right. And you think it’s a good idea to have curry night on a Tuesday, pizza night on a Thursday, Chinese night on a Friday - following post work beers - and then drink yourself silly on a Saturday, do you?”
Cats lack the facility to arch an eyebrow but I swear that, if it was possible, Peter Sellers’ eyebrow would have arched to its fullest extent. This really was the limit for me. I felt I’d been coping remarkably well with the sudden revelation that my cat was blessed with the capacity for human speech. I'd go so far as to say that I’d been doing a frankly rather splendid job of taking it all in my stride in a stoically English sort of a way. I was prepared to draw the line, however, at having my culinary choices criticised by an animal that was intimately familiar with the taste of its own testicles (or at least the general area where they used to be) and I said as much to Mr Sellers.
“Look, I’m a cat. I’m fond of you in my own sort of way but my main reason for this isn’t a sense of care and duty towards to you. No, if you want that from a pet, get one of those bloody dog things. Let’s just say that I’ve grown accustomed to a certain lifestyle here - it’s by far and away my most favourite of the three to four places that I like to think of as home - and I would hate to see anything happen to that. Don’t get me wrong, I’d be able to move in fine to one of the other places - probably the one where they call me Fluffy and think I’m a girl - but I’d much rather carry on living here and not come home to find you face down in a chicken pasanda after a curry-and-beer-induced heart attack. That’s all really.”
He considered me for a moment before idly licking a paw and commencing to wash his face.
A moment of clarity comes in many shapes and forms. For some, it’s one too many mornings waking up in the wrong place with the wrong person covered in your own sick. For others, it’s the shocking sight of blood where no blood should be. For me, it was a furry quadruped who didn’t much fancy being called Fluffy on a permanent basis.
I still like a curry night but it’s a less frequent treat rather than a regularly scheduled meal. Drinking myself silly certainly hasn’t gone away but it’s been tempered by a bit more activity and even, dare I say it, exercise. The weekly tin of tuna is still part of the schedule (well, the discussion wasn’t about his lifestyle after all).
Does he still speak to me? Some things are just better left between a man and his cat.
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