house of happy

Life adventures in prose and verse. Explorations of places, people and words. Stories and fun.

Sunday, 18 March 2012

44 days, 18

So, last night: how we partied, the three of us in our little house, fire twinkling in the stove, warm food, apple tart and a James Bond film (a present for Cheeta, to practice THAT kiss). I remembered his first night, seventeen years ago, just born and looking like a tiny orange monkey with a shock of dark hair. I couldn't quite believe this minuscule person was really there, completely helpless, adorable and ours. And look what happened: how he's still there, immensely lovable still, but not so tiny, not so helpless and, I fear, not ours anymore...

As for the other party guests: Kira danced and played with the boy, Saffie slept in front of the fire, Lyra lounged in my lap, purring. How sweet, I thought, and later made her a bed so she could sleep on, undisturbed.

Undisturbed in her delinquency, it turned out. Early in the morning I heard a rustle and went to investigate – could it be Lyra hunting mice? It was Lyra, making herself a toilet in our kindling basket. NOOO – I shouted and picked her up to put her outside. Too late. She leaked all over the kindling, her bed, the floor, my bare feet. I opened the door gagging and calling her unmentionable names... Then I washed the floor (and my feet). 'Look', I thought, 'what I'm doing at 5.30 a.m. on a fine Sunday morning... but at least she's out now'...

Not Lyra. No. She pushed the door open again and walked in just as I fell back into a little slumber. She didn't close the door behind her, of course. How could she? She's a cat! So open it stayed, letting in the morning frost. At this point, Lyra was a tad peckish. Once again (when will I learn?) she took matters into her own paws. Climbed onto the kitchen counter, found a – covered – bowl of stew, and a cheese wrapped in wax. No problem. She chewed through the wax and ate half the cheese. She washed it down with gravy from the stew, after pawing away the lid.

Thus replete, she went to the sofa and curled up for a well deserved siesta. She seemed surprised and outraged when she found herself picked up by the scruff and deposited outside. 'WHAT NOW?' she seemed to say. 'What did I do?' Then shrugged it off, had a big stretch and went back to sleep on a chair, in the sun.

I know what you're saying ('clever little thing'!) and I also know you wouldn't be saying it quite so happily were You the one washing cat pee off the floor. And this is why, my darling Moona, That Cat is NOT going to be joining us into the alambique anymore. She can have the yurt and the land. No negotiation. And should I ever waver and be tempted to let the 'clever little thing' back in, all I have to do is re-read this tiny post. Miaow!


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