Yesterday I mentioned that my three-legged monster cat, Cyril, is a total arse. I don’t know why it’s taken me so long to come to this realisation but having finally got there Cyril is now re-enforcing my opinion of him on an almost hourly basis.
It’s a warm, sunny day here today, so placed my chair in the shade in the garden and pondered the sheer loveliness of nature in all its summertime glory. Cyril came and sat companionably on the grass next to me as I watched the bees buzz from one flower to another. I got up to examine a butterfly at close range, admiring the filigree of its wings and mulling over how the short but beautiful nature of its life could be a metaphor for our own time here on Earth*. Then I glanced back at my chair. In the two nanoseconds since I got up Cyril, the sneaky little git, had jumped into my place and was giving me a smug look daring me to move him. I’m sure if he could have stuck two fingers up at me he would have.
Not only haven’t I thrown him off my chair I have (honestly) been moving him and the chair around the garden so he keeps in the shade. The cat is an arse and I am a doormat. That said only one of us is stupid enough to wear a furry black and white cat suit in this weather (and it isn’t me).
I also strongly suspect that Cyril has a pocket in his furry cat suit in which he keeps his note book containing his list of Things That Must Be Destroyed. At present I believe the list reads as follows:
- Bathroom rug
- Bedroom rug
- Anything made of toweling
- Closed doors
- Humans’ ability to relax
But I have a sinking feeling that this is only the tip of the iceberg.
* - I might have been delirious, suffering from heatstroke at this point