Welcome Home Not
So she rattles in the door expecting me to be all over her. Well, excuse me…..
Nobody can abandon moi for two weeks and get away with it. Okay, so they procured a live-in nanny because I’d simply DIE at that cattery place. But that’s the least I deserve.
“Have you been a good boy, Jonah?” she says in that patronising tone.
She bustles around the house searching for “cat smells”. I watch her sniff out the usual places, the piano, the bedroom, curtains. Does she think I have no imagination?
She opens her suitcase. Wrinkled caftans and damp swimwear spill on to the floor. I sidle up to the battered suitcase.
“Stay away from there!”
Oh well. Worth a try.
Once she’s been sufficiently punished, I’ll get her back in her routine. I’ll leap on her first thing in the morning (or before dawn if they leave the bedroom door open) and give her a a deep tissue neck massage until she can’t stand it any more and gets up.
After breakfast, I’ll escort her into the writing room and curl up on her lap to oversee a decent word output.
Then, of course, I’ll demand she escort me into the garden. Scribbler doesn’t trust me enough to allow me off the lead. She’s apparently immune to the delights of chasing me over rooftops, which only proves how unadventurous furless ones are.
Late afternoons are spent burrowing into her thighs as we watch television quiz shows. Her general knowledge is appalling.
When Man arrives home, I’ll attempt to reintroduce them to the delights of a feline springing on to the dinner table, edging closer to their plates (specially if there’s chicken involved).
Heaven forbid they go out to a movie or play. Not when they’re duty bound to stay home with mohair rugs over their knees.
Disobedience always attracts a price.