She greets me gently and calls me lady Shye. Appropriate, since I just about tolerate having my neck scratched, and only because every morning she feeds me a few crunchy bits and water. When the water smells, I reject it and wait around for a fresh serve. She knows better than to invite me into the house, and I’d never attempt to use the old cat flap, obviously installed for a previous lodger. I was traumatized once. It’s her guess that I don’t belong to anyone, which is half true.
While I wait for my morning treat, she tests my patience, by staring forever at something on her desk. It’s a mystery. Or she is combing her hair etc. … then I do my own manicure, to mirror her. Then she smiles. Though she smiles more at the Robins, which she feeds, tossing oats into vacant flowerpots, but only after I’ve seemingly vanished around the corner of the shed.
I like the peace here. I can sit for hours up in her garden. She must wonder what I’m thinking … nothing … cats are good at that. A gust, a movement, a scent, even a slight vibration hitting my ears is enough for me. Anyway, she seems to appreciate my calm presence. As to what goes on in her mind, I don’t have a clue.
At times I wonder if I’ve been drawn here as her guardian, like the robins, the blackbirds, and the fox, and lately the butterflies.
I keep a distance when she has visitors. I don’t trust humans unless they’ve proven to honour my shyness. I avoid fights with other creatures. I’m not of that kin. Even the fox respects that.
This is just to say to you humans, should you have guardians around you, treat them well, they may be send by angels.
I’m old and grumpy, a familiar sight. Small chance she wonders where I hang out when not visiting. Today she spotted me – a fluffy ginger ball dozing on a brick wall sheltered by ivy – not my regular spot. I prefer having my daily nap on a bench at the top. From that royal view downhill I keep half an eye on creature traffic, neighbour cats that shamelessly kill fledglings or lame birds, the stray dog or sly fox that slips through the hedge, reckless rodents … but it’s been drizzling all night and my favourite bench is soaking wet this morning.
bowl near the house with fresh water, just for me to slurp. In such moments we exchange glances, and she nods. What she doesn’t like is when I get too close to her little stone Buddha. Then she shakes her head or steps from the backdoor to clap her hands. I’ve seen her turn the water hose on cats with bad manners. She should know better, I’m not one of them, I have principles.
I bet she misses her companion, glossy and black as a moonless sky. She was gentle and tolerant of me, which is why I used to protect her from a nasty tom. Some years ago the woman dug a deep hole for her friend, near the compost heap. Not the most romantic spot to have one’s bones rest, but due ceremony was observed, which must count for love.
I doubt she cares where I camp at night. Doesn’t know I endure the stoned torpor of Mr X, lost in a dark place. It’s not a home, the vibes upset me. But each morning I vocally rouse X from his hangovers to alert him to my dry meal. This must be my purpose – my insistence on my existence is how he tracks time, like noticing a new day. Alas, the filthy water bowl is only rarely topped, which is why I’m thankful that the woman got the message … I’m always thirsty.
Course of Mirrors 