Lately he’s been sleeping underneath our bed.
I’ve made it to the final and heavenly last stage of my second routine. I hear purring. It’s getting louder and louder in the deafening silence of night. It’s so loud and I swear I can feel the mattress vibrating, like an idling motor. Images pop into my head of Garfield spread eagle and latched to the underside of our bed’s framework. ‘For the love of God...be quiet, I have to get up early for work’, but I smile to myself knowing that he’s so happy just to be lying under our bed. Poor thing, he has no idea what lays in wait for him in a few months time. Out of all my worries, I worry about him the most. I fret that he’ll turn feral when three of our daughter’s indoor (completely mental) cats and Rottweiler (Conan) move in while we are away. Actually, he’s OK with the Rotty, since they've known each other from nearly birth. Conan visits from time to time and there ensues a game of cat and...well, Rotty.
Eventually sleep comes.
If it’s not an ‘office’ work day Bundy usually wakes us up by giving out a pathetic ‘it’s nearly 8.30 get out of bed’ meow...more like a door hinge in need of a good belt of oil. But today is office day, so I (always) wake up unnecessarily early, wondering if I have 1 or 100 minutes left until my mobile phone alarm sounds, as I doze in and out of sleep. When it does I sometimes answer it with a 'hello?' before realising it’s not a phone call.
I head down the stairs, I can hear ting, ting, ting, but I can’t see him right now. By the time I enter the bathroom, he’s right behind me and I shut the door as he follows me in. He sits on the bath mat, bathing, while I go about my morning flushing, washing and brushing. We head for the kitchen, me to make my coffee, him to eat his biscuits...he’s a biscuitarian. But, something’s wrong, he stops short of his bowl by a few feet. I say ‘go on, eat you’re bikkies’ and he gives me a pitiful look, so I walk over and jiggle them around in his bowl. I finish making my coffee. By this time he’s sitting with his back to me, facing the pantry door and looking upwards, to where the bikkies reside. I give in and get the packet out and we walk back to his bowl, not unlike a silly walk out of a Monty Python skit, as he loops around my feet and tries to trip me on the way.
I top up his bowl with some token fresh biscuits and give him a pat as he eats and purrs simultaneously. I pick up my coffee and head to the lounge room to turn on the news, popping a Nicorette gum into my mouth on the way.
It’s been documented that some people have dumped their unwanted cats at animal refuges because they don’t match their new decor. Lucky for him we have Bundy coloured curtains.
*Note to self...never buy a small, fluffy, purse size, toy dog.