Two weeks ago, my elderly neighbor died. She was a sweet lady who'd babysat my plants many times. And she had a cat. A cat that, for one reason and another, now had no home.
The upshot: I now have a cat. A 14-year-old grey cat
that, from what I can tell, is determined to compete with me in world
domination. And everything else, including the running of my life.
CAT has two interests in life: eating and trying to escape. Unfortunately for
THE CAT, the first of these requires me to feed it. Which if THE CAT had its
way, would be all the time.
For week one this resulted in an interesting
standoff, in which the cat either yowled or pointedly ignored me, and I, having
a cattish personality myself, pointedly ignored it.
We've now progressed
to the point where we occasionally deign to notice each other's presence. And
THE CAT has now learned, to its and my benefit, that just because I'm doing an
impromptu song-and-dance performance of The Threepenny Opera in my kitchen does
not mean I'm about to feed it. There's hope for us yet.