Our second week has begun in Puerto Vallarta and we have finally settled in, although the same could not be said for my wife’s cats, Bertram and Pericles.
Apparently their arrival in the lovely neighbourhood of El Cerro went unremarked by the cat population seen lounging about the place in the sun. That is until Bertram, the more immature of the two, playfully (his term) stuck his tongue out at “Old One-Eye,” the leader of the local street cats.
Now One-Eye has not kept his place in society by letting such as wanton acts of tongue acrobatics go unnoticed. Therefore he placed himself beside our window by the kitchen and waved the excited Bertram over to the sill. Pericles thought it ill-advised to engage with the locals, but Bertram suggested that he might like to chat to the king of cats as equals. That was a fundamental error.
I have noticed over the years that cats are highly sensitive to blows to their noses as they are highly developed in that area. So when Old One-Eye struck Bertram full on his nose with his large closed paw, Bertram took immediate exception and said so, When he was struck a second time for good measure Bertram hurriedly left the field of combat, shouting loudly about Shaftesbury rules, lack of referee, etc.
There are now about 700 cats sitting around our hacienda with the smell of cat urine becoming evident. In short we are a biffy, all because of Bertram’s predilection for not taking wise council. Other than that we love it here.
I should tell you that a few mems from my club have followed us down here to paradise, including the Brigadier and Mrs. Hynde-Quarters. While I am flattered, it is also a bit of an imposition in that they are still looking for advice, even here.
One chap who really worries me is Paul Rum-Bottom. He is in a frenzy most days at the club but really becomes unhinged when here in the injurious sun.
This is a man who counts his day a waste of time if he has not proposed marriage to some benighted lady, even though he may be struck in the bargain. Paul imagines that his injury has come about because of an over-supply of passion on the part of the innocent recipient of his plea, which is nonsense. I have pleaded with him on numerous occasions to put a bit of water in his wine and take a rest. He never seems satisfied, no matter whom he meets.
The trouble is now that he has discovered Puerto Vallarta, he is mad about the women here, and who can blame him? If it were not for my undying love of Kitty, my wife of some 50 years, I might wander, dare I say.
The Mexican female, you see, is very old-fashioned. They care about the happiness of their husbands, so it comes as a tremendous shock, but a delicious one, to the average Canadian fellow. They want to make us chaps happy every day, can you imagine?
Anyway, now Rum-Bottom cannot seem to get involved with club women anymore, much less Canadian-born and -bred types. He has met a local (Carmen) from PV, with whom he is head over heels in love.
I asked to meet this lady of his, expecting something pretty ghastly, as Rum-Bottom has a surfeit of the genes that deal with the handsome end of things. Nevertheless I was staggered by the creature he presented me with, a dusky goddess of the first order, or should I say a mother and possibly a grandmother goddess, as she was not in the first blush of youth, but perfect nonetheless. For once I did not have a quick answer, as there isn’t one for this situation; he was a lucky fellow, period. I simply congratulated him on his choice of companion and left him to it.
There is more, of course, for he insisted on asking Kitty and me to his true love’s house for drinks and dinner. What could I do but agree to appear with wife in hand? Melancholy filled my soul as we entered what can only be described as a small, down-market house off the beaten path, but neat as a pin, I hasten to add.
There was the fortunate Rum-Bottom sitting in what would pass for a threadbare throne while being served by our lovely hostess. My wife wondered in her off-stage voice, the sort that one one hears at Stratford when the fat chap playing Falstaff has muffed a line, whether Carmen had taken leave of her senses.
I am not really sure how we managed to get through the tense but wonderful dinner, with Carmen serving us as if we were Middle Eastern potentates the most delicious delights from her tiny but magical kitchen. Kitty kept her serious face on throughout the ordeal, but I noticed did not object to seconds when served. In fact if the truth be told, we ate everything in sight, to the great delight of Rum-Bottom.
When we returned to our condo, after my wife had removed the welcoming but clinging cats from her frock, she made a point of saying that it is a good thing I did not expect such “servitude” from a wife. “That sort of thing is in very short supply around here,” she reminded me, as if I needed to be.
However I did notice something new, as that night’s cocoa contained a little more cinnamon than usual. So perhaps something good came of Carmen’s example of a loving nature. Just my opinion, of course.
Copyright Christopher Dalton 2016
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