For a selfie with Benedict
And I’ve still got that bloody cat under my feet! Should’ve left him with Simon as he reminds me of him so much. The more he keeps it up, the more he gets on my wick although to be fair I forgot to buy him his food. Well, tough luck on poor pussy. Besides, he’s fat enough as it is. He’ll eat better tomorrow. No milk today, my love is gone away…
He was so cute and adorable when he was a kitten…nothing like the great lump he is now…
We hesitated for a while before choosing a name because we wanted to sus “her” personality.
We finally opted for Kate since she seemed to have a really graceful and distinguished walk. She had lots of finesse, dead posh. Anyway, Kate grew up and we found ourselves obliged to rename her William. Well…nobody’s perfect. We can all make mistakes. Besides, he/she was our first cat. How were we to know she was a he?
I was the first to notice one fine day when I picked her up to give her a cuddle and I suddenly remarked to Simon.
“Hey, are you sure we were right to name her Kate?”
“Well, there’s just a slight problem.”
“Now what’s up? Have you already changed your mind?”
“It’s not that! Have a look!”
“Oh, shit, yeah…she’s got a thingy.”
“We’ll have to change her name!”
“Okay, let’s call him Batman then.”
“Absolutely no way!”
“No! William, that’s it, we’ll call him William. That way he won’t get fucked up. We don’t want to give him the impression that he’s descending the social ladder.”
“You what? It’s a fucking cat!
“So? Just ‘cos he can’t speak doesn’t mean he can’t cop on to what’s happening. I mean, he could become depressive.”
“Oh, don’t be such a snob!”
“It’s got nothing to do with snobbery; it’s a question of psychology.”
“Yeah well in that case, call him Harry. Suits him better. He’s a ginger tom. Harry’s a ginger top.”
“God, you’re so dim sometimes! William goes better with Kate. William and Kate, ye know?”
And so, thanks to me, our pussycat underwent a name change without experiencing the slightest trauma in connection with his social standing or gender identity. Five minutes later, the cat’s continuing to remind me about his food and I’m stricken with remorse. After all it’s not the poor bloody animal’s fault. I shouldn’t be taking it out on him. Come on, he won’t bloody starve to death! But he keeps on bothering me. God he pisses me off! He’s definitely a bloke all right!
Okay, a final and vain attempt at resistance. After having tried to ignore him for the last time, I’m so wracked with shame and guilt that I end up sharing my dinner with the poor little bugger. But his continually complaining meows are telling me that he’s not going to settle for that muck! I finally find myself having to dash out in the rain to fetch him a few tins from the corner shop.
I climb the stairs loaded down with cat food while congratulating myself for having come back out on top after the break-up. Me, a girl who previously was so behind the times at last become a modern and liberated woman. Down with submission ! Well, almost. I only give in to the opposite sex when it comes to the moggy.