Wednesday, 10 October 2012

That's Not My Cat


Another cat for you. This is Rory. Rory in a bag. When we lived in Oakham we had a cat flap but no cat, and Rory - real name unknown* - was a frequent visitor. For all his disdainful, snooty looks he was a bit of a grubby numbnuts (he liked to sleep in the road) and always stank of stale cigarette smoke. He'd squeeze himself in between us if we were curled up on the sofa, if the butter was left uncovered he'd lick it all over and if we locked the cat flap he would scratch at it and moan until we let him in. I once heard a rustling under my desk and found him under there like this, inside a paper bag (which he'd broken with his fat body) of old sketchbooks.

We lived opposite Tesco, and Rory's favourite spot for a nap outside was nestled up against the curb while the delivery lorries thundered past. The last time we saw him was December 2007, when my family was visitng for a Christmas feast and Rory sauntered in and fell asleep on the sideboard next to a bottle of cooking brandy. We don't know if a Tesco lorry finally got him or if his family moved away, but we stayed there for another two years and never saw him again. We missed him.

*We can't remember why we called him Rory, but it suited him.

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