In the age old tradition of the British Bank Holiday Monday, it is raining fit to bust out there. The cat is tragic about this and has taken on her true heritage as a cat by incessantly moaning about it, and demanding to be let out regardless.
We let her out the French windows. She goes out. She wanders around in the rain moaning. She comes back. She demands to be let in. She moans because she really, truly wants to go out but everything is too awful to contemplate. She stares accusingly at the rain trickling down the window panes for a while, daring it to stop. It does not stop raining despite her attempts at mind control trickery.
She goes to the front door. She moans. We let her out. She sticks her head out and then in, and looks at me in that ‘Outraged of Knighton way,’ amazed that it is raining at both the front and the back of the house. But how can that be? Are the weather gods messing with us? She wails piteously and stalks away, stiff legged with indignation.
She spreads herself across the hall floor, making sure she is in everyone’s way. She writhes about, mewling in half broken phrases, all of which seem to imply that it is my fault that the rain is here, and why can’t I get on the case? What is wrong with me? Can’t I see that I am clearly ruining her life? She has things to do out there. There is prowling, and stretching, and wobbling on the fence. There is squirrel taunting and pigeon lusting after, and it’s NOT BLOODY FAIR.
And don’t even get her started on basking. Oh, how she misses basking. How is a cat supposed to go on living without being able to bask on dusty stones, warmed by gentle sunlight? It is an infraction of her feline rights.
Occasionally she gets up and sulks by the French windows, perched, ramrod straight with disapproval on the edge of the chaise longue, swearing in cat at the unceasing flow of water. She wanders to her food bowl and picks disconsolately at her biscuits to try and cheer herself up, tail quivering with annoyance that hunks of raw venison haven’t miraculously fallen into the bowl since the last time she came to look.
It is all a bit much.
Soon she will give up and go and sleep in the crook of the stairs, nose tucked into tail, one eye occasionally opening just to make sure she is not missing anything. Still managing to radiate an air of outrage, even in her sleep.
How very dare they?
She does not know who ‘they’ are, but by golly, when she finds them they are in for a drubbing and no mistake. She still suspects that ‘they’ might actually be me, but as I am in charge of the biscuits she feels that she is not really in a position to savage me to the bone, which is a shame, but there you go.