Is it not enough that I must pass every morning by Pericles, hunched like a hen, hatching further malevolence? Must I also be made to avoid the other frightful cat hanging from the upstairs bannister, stretching down in an effort to scratch my salty pate? This is my morning ritual as I make a dash for my club to medicate my shattered nerves with an early martini after a breakfast fraught with indigestion.
In spite of all that I must face in my own home every day, I still wake with a wave of optimism. After bouncing off of my bed into my waiting slippers, I deftly slip on my tartan (Douglas, my mother’s clan)) dressing gown and do a few bends and stride jumps to alert the body that it is another day and it must soon convey me to the club. Then I give Kitty, my slumbering wife of some 50 years, a soft kiss between her large eyebrows and make my way down to breakfast. Mrs. Bleak, our cook, has prepared the usual fare, runny eggs, crispy bacon and burnt toast slathered in marmalade, partnered with an ocean of tea.
It is usually about here where the cart goes off the road, because there is something about my veiny hairless legs that drives the cats into a catnip state of frenzy. I don’t think I am alone here; while negotiating slippery eggs in a state of concentration, I often remove a slipper and waggle my toes.
Suddenly there is a rush of wind as the cats, Pericles and Bertram, go for the now free foot under the table. Much cursing and thrashing ensues until a lucky kick catches one of the creatures in the short ribs, whereupon they both retire to their two-seater kitty litter to review the recent battle.
And that is another thing. The terrible twosome used to have to go down to the basement to explore their toilet but because Bertram has an alleged hip issue (Lord I hate that term, “issue”) my wife and the cook insisted that the fearful bathroom be moved closer to their food dishes, i.e. in the kitchen. This allows me to witness their WC rituals, namely smells that would raise eyebrows at a plumbers’ convention, whilst I attempt to eat my breakfast.
Then having got past that outrage, I repair to my study, the only site in our small keep where I can be alone with my teeming thoughts, before escaping to my club. However even here small, pink, furry noses appear under my door, just letting me know that they are near, always. For a man with an anxious disposition, this is not good, not good at all. How can one pick up the pieces of an ever loosening mind in the face of wet noses sniffing about the carpet?
Finally, with as much dignity as I can muster, I stride from my study, down the stairs and out the door, making for the club with my head held high. My last sight of the house features the blasted cats sitting in the bay window sticking their tongues out. No wonder the cat-free club calls me to its bosom on a daily basis.
Once upon a time the club had allowed a cat to roam the premises in an effort to keep the mouse population at a reasonable level. But then the aging premier of the province tripped over the cat, King George, at the top of the stairway, which sent the large-bottomed politician sailing down the steps, but not before hitting the oldest member of staff, Knowles, carrying the club silver tea service. The poor servant never recovered his mobility and sat in the front lobby with many coats draped over him. King George prematurely retired to a home for misunderstood cats up-Island somewhere. He was never replaced.
When I can stay away no longer I must return home, where once again the appalling cats take up the cudgel of armed resistance to my presence in my own house. And so it goes. C’est la vie. Bah.
Copyright Christopher Dalton 2015
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