Just had a very long chat with my friend Vicki in Melbourne. Thanks Vicki. It was great. Vicki used to give Cat aeroplanes: she would hold him under his tummy and spin him around. He purred his head off. I am pretty sure had I ever tried it I’d have lost an arm. Or an eye. Maybe both.
Vicki and I used to work together. We got on. We did not get on with management. To say we were managed badly is like saying the Spanish Inquisition was not welcomed by Jews and protestants. An understatement.
Cat was our therapist.
He would listen while I told him all the awfulnesses of work and just stretch out and ask to be groomed. He never contradicted, never pointed out inconsistencies in my narrative. He kept me sane. I know that sounds like a big claim, but I think it’s true.
Vicki’s husband got tired of hearing how horrid things were at work. So she came to Cat as well. It’s a good thing he didn’t realise how crucial he was to our mental well-being. We should both have been bankrupted by buying him prawns.
I have been looking through old photographs and found a number so far of Cat that have made me smile.
Truly, he was a prince among cats.