We’ve found a tenant for our house, after only a few days on the market. She comes with a cat, so Alex and her Mum are preparing a fond farewell to the curtains they so lovingly hand-sewed.
My parents raised me in an anti-pet household. Dr Dolittle I ain’t.
When I was younger, I was lumbered with the responsibility of feeding my Aunt’s cat whenever she went on holiday. My Uncle had found and rescued the cat from the street when it was a kitten. As he was limping at the time, they called him Rocky. And as I found out to my cost, he could throw a decent left hook, too.
More recently, a friend at work took great pride and pleasure in telling me all about the adventures of his cat, The Prof. That is, until he realised I can’t stand the buggers. When he too upped sticks and moved to the US, he bought me this as a parting present:
So as you’ve guessed, I’m not thrilled by the idea of a cat lording it up in our house. I dislike cats.
Then again, the cat’s not paying the rent. I like rent.
So as long as the cat feels at home and isn’t getting a better meal elsewhere, we get paid.
Therefore, I call on anyone local to the area to leave saucers of milk by the house and throw fish at the front door. If I can purr-suade you to do that for us, it would be truly claw-some.