A Cat Called Merlot

Thursday 9th July 2020

I spent a bit of time this week observing dogs and their owners in the park at the end of our road and concluded, once again, Dogs are not self-motivated creatures. They need to be taken for a walk and have sticks or a ball thrown for them so they can get praised when they bring it back to their owner. I mean, really? If a human threw a stick for a cat and expected them to ‘fetch’ it, we’d just give them a look that said, “I’m not your slave. You want it, you get it yourself and STOP keep doing it!” If I could give dogs a bit of advice, I’d tell them to get a grip, stop being so submissive and just be more cat!

Our postman, Ken, is not the fabled friendly chap, with a black and white cat, who waves cheerfully, as he delivers the mail. I don’t think he likes his job much as he scowls at everyone and moans if people aren’t in, as he has to fill out a card. Today, from my vantage point on a neighbour’s shed, I spotted him giving a sneaky two fingered salute to Jeff at number 29 when, as he was in his car and on his way out, he asked him politely to drop his parcel at the back door of his house. Ken does however seem to be keen Mrs Waters, at number 21 who answers her door in various stages of undress. She always seems to be in the shower when the postman calls and he seems to find any excuse to ring the bell and make sure she gets her post. All I can say is, given the unpredictability of deliveries, she must be very clean.

On Sunday, I realised Queenie was hormonal because, normally fairly balanced, I heard her on the phone telling a friend how, given the chance, she’d quite happily taser anyone who tried to get through the door to her office! On Monday morning she went to work in odd colour shoes and misplaced the car…twice. I twigged we were about to encounter a difficult week when she drank lots of red wine, ate a family size tub of ice cream in one sitting and sobbed at a house renovation programme. Of course, I sympathise but I’m a bit out of my depth.  All I could think of was distraction, so I kept trying to sit on the remote control to surreptitiously change channel, as there was a rather good Attenborough documentary I wanted to watch about birds. Unfortunately, she kept snatching the remote and putting it out of my way. Slightly irritated, I would have like to have suggested that if she really wanted something to cry about, she should watch the news. Finally, puffy-eyed she stomped off to bed with a bar of chocolate and the rest of the wine under her arm. 

On Tuesday evening, after several lapses in self-control and hormone levels clearly sea-sawing uncontrollably, Queenie decided radical action was necessary in regard to her COVID stash of biscuits and chocolates. Half-heartedly filling a large carrier bag, wavering over a vast selection of biscuits, that went in and out of the bag like the hokey cokey, she marched purposefully down the street to donate them to the homeless man who lives in the park. If nothing else I thought, he’ll get a massive sugar-rush. I trotted along behind for moral support and we found Gideon Longfellow, reading ‘War & Peace’, outside the folly he’s made his temporary home. He has a PhD in science but had a difficult relationship with alcohol which resulted in him losing his job and family. He looks up and greets us, his walnut skin and twinkly blue eyes making his beard look even whiter. Smiling, he thanks Queenie and says whilst he hasn’t got much of a sweet tooth himself, he’ll keep them for her, in case of a relapse. I raise an eyebrow and by ten that evening, she was back up the road, with a torch, to retrieve a packet of bourbons.