My first blog may as well be about something I love. Cats. I might even love cats more than food and anyone who knows me, knows that that is saying something. Actually, thinking about it, food tops cats. And so I guess my first blog is going to be about something that comes second best…
Ah well, hairy chest and all that.
I don’t know why I love cats so much. I suppose one of the reasons is that they’re the only animal that makes me feel like a complete and utter idiot and I respect that. I’ve got a cat, Sylvie, and it’s definitely her that wears the trousers in our relationship. She gets the comfiest chair, most of the bed, the expensive ham (I tried to feed her Felix Cat Food once and she sniffed at it, looked up at me in disgust, and walked away). I even leave the door wide open in the middle of the night so she can come back in whenever she wants… although that act abruptly came to an end when I left it open during a snow storm.
Mither wisnae chuffed.
But yeah, Sylvie’s got me whipped. She’s been in the family for 22 whole years – that’s longer than I’ve been in the family and honestly, sometimes, she feels like the older sibling I’ll never be able to live up to. I’m her favourite human though. When I go back to UNI, she sits in my room mewing, lamenting my absence.
Although she’s probably just annoyed that her slave has buggered off.
The other night, however, I wasn’t having any of it…as they say. I hadn’t got to bed until about one in the morning (I wish it was because of something interesting or cool, but in truth I was just watching re-runs of ‘Come Dine With Me’) and I had to get up for work in four hours and so when Sylvie woke me up, mewing in my face with her honey roast ham breath, I pushed her off me, turned around and went straight back to sleep. I was wearing the trousers that night. Later on, however, I must have become conscious that her constant mewing had stopped because I woke up. Sylvie was curled up beside me, but she wasn’t breathing. When I stroked her, she didn’t move. Not wanting to be in the same bed as a dead cat, I leaped out of it and ran into the bathroom where I started sobbing, distraught that she was dead, distraught that I had ignored her.
I then thought that I should go and tell Mum and it was like something out of a movie when I did.
Me: “Mum, Sylvie’s died.”
Mum throws back the covers and jumps out of bed.
After crying with my Mum for about a good hour, she said we should go and move her. I wasn’t too keen on going back into my room and so lingered a little behind while she went in. When I finally did master the courage, Mum was standing by the bed with her arms folded.
“She’s obviously breathing. GOODNIGHT.”
And there was Sylvie, sitting upright, licking her bum.
That bitch sure showed me.