A CAT CALLED MERLOT

Thursday 10th September 2020

Queenie is still working from home a few days a week, which I enjoy because I can help her. You could describe me as her Personal Assistant. Most days she sits typing away on her lap top, whilst I wander over her keyboard to add a personal touch to her documents. If she fails to proof-read before sending to her colleagues they provoke a lot of emails asking her to clarify what, “I would recommend you 5^h*()+” or “I need you to ~CE$HMUKOP, as soon as possible”, means? I have a chair next to her, with my cushion and exhausted with her pace of work, I just nap and listen to her calls. It’s strange that most of the people she speaks to have the same name. I know this because when she hangs up, she frequently mutters under her breath, “Dick!”  

Speaking of Richard, Queenie had a date on Saturday with a massive Australian rugby player who bounded through the front door like an over-excited puppy. As you know, cats like calm people, so he irritated me from the off. I was just enjoying a snooze on the back of the sofa when he announced, loudly, “I’m good with cats!” And made a dive for my partially exposed stomach which he proceeded to rub roughly, saying, “You like that don’t you mate?” Clearly he reads his audience, like I’m led to believe, the new UK Trade Secretary…Offended by the assault, I rolled over and gave him a massive swipe with my paw, which immediately drew a fair quantity of blood from his finger. Staring at it in horror, he turned pale and his big knees buckled as he slumped down on the living room carpet. I got to my paws and stretched, thinking he must be a rubbish Prop if one left hook from a cat could take him down. When he came round, he made Queenie bandage his finger so he couldn’t see the blood and hobbled wanly, off to his car. Bye…Mate, I thought.

On Wednesday, Gary at number 11, finished installing an elaborate ensuite at Sheridan and Fernanda’s house. Sheridan, suggested he might like to take one of his paintings as payment instead of cash, as a bit of a tax dodge. Gary just stared at the artworks and back at Sheridan as if he’d gone completely mad, asking why he would want to hang something on his wall that looked: “Like road-kill”!

YOWL! Is proving an ongoing disappointment. I’ve swiped left so much I’m in danger of getting RSI of the paw. The queens on there seem to be all fur and feline-fillers and just pout at the camera with vacuous cattitude. I prefer the more natural look. There was one Canadian queen who seemed very nice but no sensible cat wants to leave their territory to travel even a modest distance, as before you know it, some opportunist has taken over and you have to start that defending thing again. It’s all too draining and time consuming. Let’s be honest, the only people who gain are the vets, who get to patch us up, afterwards. 

Last night, I caught sight of Lola carousing with a big British Blue. He was striding along, covered in bling, looking shifty-in-a-very-big-car-with-blacked-out windows, kind of way!