I’ve been doing it so long it just seems normal. I saw a tee –shirt the other day that read ‘It’s only kinky the first time’ – and that’s how I feel about it. I’m not harming anyone, am I? I’m not sure exactly when it started, some years ago, in a small way at first, but now we do it most afternoons, she even expects it. She likes it, I can tell the way she lets out little squeals of happiness and ecstasy.
My wife Anne works all day so she doesn’t see us, but I think she knows all about it. So I intend to keep doing it as long as I can, while we both enjoy it. I’m not getting any younger, and nowadays all exercise is good exercise. I don’t care what the neighbours think – they’re not likely to say anything to my face are they?
Now at this stage, I have no idea where your lurid, over-imaginative mind has taken you – but if it’s too far then you should enter the next Olympics for jumping to conclusions. What am I referring to? Why taking my little black cat Cleo for a walk every afternoon – what on earth did you think I was talking about?
One night I was returning from football just as dusk was settling and crossing our front patio, I could just make out something small and dark on the step leading up to the front door, it looked like a little mole. I bent down and saw this tiny bundle was a black kitten sitting looking up at me. I called Anne to come and see. She peered down and swept up the furry little creature in both hands, and turned, leaving the following instructions over her shoulder:
‘Ooh, isn’t she lovely, John, do you think someone’s abandoned her? There´s chicken in the fridge, chop it up really small. Make a little bed, get one of those towels from the airing cupboard, a warm fluffy one. Listen, she’s purring really loudly – what shall we call her?´
It seemed churlish to ask if dinner was ready, and our future domesticity seemed to be already changed. From that moment ‘Cleo’ as we named her after Cleopatra for her instantly regal manner, strolled around our house as though she owned it. She quickly grew into a lovely cat, and to say we wouldn’t be without her today is a massive understatement.
We have a green area known as ‘verde’ behind our house that all our adjacent house back onto. At first we just took little strolls, but it soon grew, we have half a dozen different routes which we vary according to our mood.
If sometimes in the afternoons I have a mild attack of lazyitus, I get a cool stare from Her Majesty and then my conscience always gets the better of me and we dutifully stroll out, always in a good mood when we return (that’s me by the way).
Cleo invariably drags her heels as we head for home and stays frolicking on the verde until she gets bored and returns – and then I can relax again. It seems to me I worry about her more than when my own daughter was small, but that’s probably just the passing of age. I even worry about her when she’s out doing whatever it is cats do when they’re out at day or night, but really, I shouldn’t worry the Queen can take care of herself.
She’s very savvy and streetwise, and although she’s had a few dust-ups over the years with the other local moggies we are happy. Our Cleo is nobody’s push over, and can look after herself in a cat fight, which are vicious affairs. Regular visits to the vet have ensured she is in beautiful condition and her varied diet ensures her healthy glow. So, I return to where I started – I’ve been doing it for so long it just seems normal –so there!
UPDATE – Well…. that was then, written ten years ago, I think. Today we have all moved on – and it shows. Cleo is now an old lady, still very regal in all she does, which to be honest is not a lot. She sleeps much more, and the afternoon strolls petered out several years ago. I´m not averse to the odd siesta myself so that suits me. My wife Anne doesn’t work now, so our little family menage a trois works well.
The only problem is Cleo has taken to sleeping on the front top step of our porch leading down to the front patio, it´s a lovely sunspot for her. I´m always worried and nag Anne to be careful of falling over Cleo coming in and out – but last week the doorbell rang and my lovely wife was in the kitchen cooking us a meal. I managed to step down over Cleo to get to the front gate to find a bag hanging there that our kindly old lady neighbour had left for us, but disaster struck on my return.
I was recently diagnosed with Osteoporosis with a wigging from the oncologist to be careful, no lifting heavy things etc, etc, deep joy. Somehow on my return I tripped over Her Majesty and crashed down on my shoulder, and I was almost convinced I had broken my arm.
As we are just about to fly to the UK for my annual reunion which I organize, plus driving many miles to see all the family I was appalled. As I lay there on the cold hard tiles my brain went into overdrive. Mentally I was already limping out of the hospital all strapped up with my arm in a sling and my poor wife then having to organize everything, drive everywhere, take Cleo to the cattery, lug the suitcase about and…
… well, phew, thankfully it was OK. I hadn’t broken anything, I´m just a very stupid lucky boy. Cleo? She hardly stirred, bless her, but we must urgently find a different, less inconvenient place for her to lay and rest her little bones before one of us, her poor surrogate parents come to more grief. We love her to bits of course and wouldn´t be without her – long live our Queen.
