THE CAT
She is not allowed in. The dog is. He is tiny, black and white and he is not allowed to bark. As soon as he lets out one high pitched WOOF, everyone in the house storms out, reprimands him, catches him, takes him into their arms and carries him inside.
They seem to have forgotten they ever wanted a cat. Not that they don’t feed her, they do of course. The cat knows that she belongs to this house, she has no doubt. Last spring, I watched her trying. Whenever the wooden French doors opened and one of them stepped out onto the terrace, she observed. In auspicious moments, she ran. I held my breath. It took never more than half a minute before she was put back onto the grass.
Today she sat again on the sunny spot directly in front of the glass door. She sits on top of the doormat. I guess that adds warmth from underneath, now at the end of October. She never tries any longer – to get inside I mean. Even if they air out downstairs – she knows her place.
I should'nt watch her. But she is right there - between us only the neighbor’s fence, a strip of lawn, the terrace. I see her so clearly. She never goes far. Just walks close circles around the house.
It hurts us to see the other cats, so sure of themselves.
About the Creator
Beate Carlsen
those are my legs, in summer, on my green couch. I have my legs up while reading and writing as well. So you could say, this is a typical and characteristic pic of me...
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Buskerville
Last night we went out for dinner, to Jamie Oliver, not too far away. My daughter Marie likes Jamie Olivers. Those restaurants are a bit fancier than she can afford on her student budget on her own, and she adores spaghetti. It wasn’t a long night though. One glass of not too remarkable white for me, just a coke for her. She had classes early the next morning. She would never consider to miss them for something not life threatening. I do not have to worry about Marie, not a bit. The next morning I make up the sleeping sofa she gave me in her cramped room, make myself another cup of instant coffee and head out the door. After having pulled the door shut I remember to check if I got the Oyster Card. Panic. I have no key. But there it is, lipstick, Kleenex, phone, Oyster Card. Marie explained to me how to get to Canary Wharf. I walk out of her apartment building, taking the walkway directly to my right, passing the dumpsters on my right, get to the road, I forgot the name of – but it must be just this one in front of me – cut across and look for the entry to the tube, which should be 300 meters to the left. After maybe 150 meters I still can’t see any sign. Maybe she meant to the right. The middle-aged man I am asking is not so helpful. He wants to know, if I intend to take the DRL? No, I want to take the tube, I tell him. Whatever a DRL may be. I don’t ask him that. He looks at me for a second as if to see if I mean it, then directs me to turn around, to march to the very end of this street, sticking to it, even though it is curving to the right and then to the left and to the right again, then taking the next left, under the bridge and there already would be the steps down to the entry of what sounds like North Gren Station. I ask him, if he is sure, but he is.
By Beate Carlsen11 months ago in Families
Comments (1)
As a lifelong cat person, that was all sorts of heartbreaking!