Beginnings

After two days of almost balmy weather, the temperature dropped again and as the house began to feel a little chilly, we decided to re-engage the oil burner.

With a vastly reduced number of cats, we don’t need to heat every room, so we manage with the gas fire and radiators unless it is especially cold or windy.

All of which was fine. Until Christmas week.

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At any time of year our plumber is run off his feet, so we feel bad even calling him.

This is not an emergency, but why, when such things occur, is it always a holiday?

Or a weekend. I don’t know how many times we’ve had to take a cat to an emergency clinic because they got sick on a Saturday or Sunday.

Maybe it’s just that those times are particularly memorable.

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The morning of the solstice was especially dark.

Even when the horizon lightened, the night seemed reluctant to withdraw, the contrast being quite remarkable.

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It was as if the darkness of night flattened out into an extensive sombre cloud cover, beyond which there appeared to be bright sunlight.

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Such a spectacle makes washing breakfast dishes quite enjoyable.

Little Man has taken to supervising.

He’s also developed another hobby…

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Making confetti.

At least he targets bits of cardboard and not the furniture.

If you love your furniture or are what used to be called house-proud, you really shouldn’t entertain the idea of having cats. They can be counted on to zero in on your favourite item, with intent to destroy.

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The first in my long line of cats, I inherited from my friend Tim, when he bought a house leaving me to take over his apartment. I’d first met Mohammed when he was but a wee scrap.

The boy grew quickly, finding many ways to entertain himself while Tim was at work. Unlike me, Tim loved to cook, so I often went round for supper which gave me the opportunity to befriend the destroyer.

Mohammed used to retreat to the furthest wall of the bedroom, wind himself up and pelt through the apartment to throw himself up the curtains on the opposite side and soon they were literally in shreds.

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It was Tim’s intention that Mohammed would move to the new home and perhaps the lad would have settled down if a new kitten had not arrived to mess things up.

Tim found the kitten at the airport and brought him to live with me in the apartment, but as soon as he got it home, he fell in love with it and no more mention was made of the kitten being mine.

It was, however, I who named him. He was all white and I thought he looked like a Roman in a toga, hence Caesar, which was a very grand name for a sweet, simple little cat. Mohammed detested him on sight and at the new house, took refuge atop the fridge, glowering and refusing to come down.

When it was obvious that Mohammed was quite unhappy, Tim brought him back up the road to his old digs where he lived happily with me.

And that was where it began…

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