Ella

Our cat, Ella is a rescue. We spotted her one afternoon gamboling away in her inimitable self-assured way inside the confines of a pet store’s cage. Oblivious to the hustle and bustle around her, Ella, who at this stage of her young life was all ears and protuberant anus — not a slick and dangerous huntress as she has become — was giving all vigor and needle-like claws to a little red ball at the bottom of her cage. She chucked it up in the air, next swiped it towards the bar, her pair of neon yellow eyes now surveying the prey. Suddenly with a bum wiggle she pounced! And with the ball tightly in her grasp, let out the sweetest, tiniest little pant. We took her home the same day to meet our kindly but very nervous rescue dog, named Hiruko.

Ella, now a grown cat, has an affinity for water — but on her terms only. Often, after I have taken a shower, Ella slinks into the bathroom, and, gingerly flanking the wall like an escapee avoiding searchlights, paws her way into the shower. We're not sure what she does next. If we try to investigate by pulling back the shower curtain she freezes and regards us with an expression that brusquely demands "What do you want?".

Notwithstanding her curiosity of water, she does have her limits. She has on occasion been accidentally besprinkled to her considerable alarm. My husband, G, enjoys vigorously shaking his hands after washing them, and Ella has not yet learned to make herself scarce when G is working his fleshly aspergillums.

Cat's possess an ensemble of calls at their disposal, but while caring for her we have found that Ella is more reserved than most. A cheerful sing-song 'meow', the first of two predominant sounds she prefers is used straight after what must, in all likelihood be, a very good poo. The other sound is a trill that begins in a warm baritone register and climbs to a shrill peak. Pianissimo means she is excited, forte and its 'panic stations'. The latter, she bellows in distress as she disapparates away to a safe corner to lick the fine pearls of water from my Husband's unwelcome blessing.

Our dog's water bowl, once under her sole patronage, now serves both her and the cat. We originally served the cat's refreshments in a smaller metallic bowl designed to sit alongside her food. But Ella never had much interest in her own, preferring instead to drink from the dog's. Perhaps it was the dimensions of the bowl and the relatively vast amount of water that drew her. It could just be that she feels inclined to share whatever her sister has which is likely as Ella likes to regularly help herself to Hiruko's kibble. Her insouciant nibbling is often regarded by Hiruko's murderous eyes from a corner of the room.

Ella likes to play with the water bowl; when it is time for a drink, she positions herself elegantly in front. She begins the water ritual with a long pensive stare into the bowl like an oracle on the cusp of gnosis. Whatever the quality of her prognostications are, she does not share them but dips her paw gently on the water's surface as if to wake it from a dream. Suddenly the scene is altogether different: her movements become languid, luxurious. She is undressed. Paws dab water under each ear, then her brow. Deadly claws are now combs carefully removing the day's detritus. She repeats, and I like David am spellbound by this feline Bathsheba beside the pool, the dog food, and next to the oven. Now, she is a peasant. Crouching low she laps water in haste. Hurriedly she gulps, and gulps, and gasps — too fast. Now, coughing and spluttering all over the kitchen floor. The vision is ruined. Has she seen me? I am far behind her, but her ears quiver presciently. Quick! Yellow eyes lock with mine and with a sudden trill, she's gone.