I think I am as open-minded as the next chap who holds himself to five martinis a day and likes his roast beef well done, but cats on our bed during the night would try the patience of a saint. I could see St. Francis of Assisi preparing to turn in his saint ribbon if some follower did not remove said cats from his wooden pallet forthwith.
In my case, that bloody pair of Bertram and Pericles, two cats my wife brought home many moons ago, make my life hell. The date of their arrival on our bed coincided with the start of my decline in spirit and body, plus that is when I began to whisper like a seer such things as “Oh death be swift,” etc. This is not the former me.
I know a large part of the problem is that on a good night I visit the privy no fewer than 14 times, which my wife Kitty claims disturbs the cats, but still it is my privy and I should not being feeling guilty at my time of life. I point out to my wife that because one or two of the beasts assumes the position across my sensitive ankles when I must use the facilities, I have no feeling in my feet. Therefore I fall to my knees, not unlike an aged martyr, thus awakening the awful cats. It is not my fault, it is theirs.
It does no good to think one has won the argument because nothing will change the harsh looks and tutting sounds emanating from my current wife of some 50 years.
You would not believe this is the same woman I first met an eon ago. In those days she would never have allowed any animal access to her parents’ furniture; they were to lie on the floor, sore ribs or not.
Their hound Wentworth spent his life either on the Persian rug by the front door or with his nose buried in his bowl. His was a highly regulated life but he appeared content with the rules of the house and was in rapture when on his two walks of the day.
In passing I have to say his bladder must have been the size of a weather balloon, but as I mentioned, he appeared at one with himself. There also was a cat likewise called Wentworth, as Kitty’s father felt the name good enough for both and why cause a strain on the brain remembering two names? The second Wentworth was also prevented from touching a chair or a couch and so contented himself clinging to a windowsill near the kitchen.
I found it a perfect house. My only complaint was with the dog Wentworth, which, when faced with a visit from yours truly, would brutally bury his snout in my groin as if he were a sleuth in search of a villain. My wife’s frightful family found this action hilarious, but her father always had the look of a retired policeman who thought there might be something to it.
I was dying of embarrassment but soldiered on through endless dinners with the dog’s pointy nose between my squirming legs with a serviette covering its head. I mean, you try having a meaningful conversation with a suspicious father while a dog nose nuzzles your privates and see how you fare. It is a miracle I made it through to the apple crumble.
Now we live in cat heaven, where my nighttime habits are questioned constantly and with prejudice. Instead of the lovely teddies my wife used to wear to bed, her garb looks like an army blanket, and let’s face it, the cats rule. No wonder your Major races for his club each morning in a desperate attempt to right the wrongs visited upon me, like the boils of Job. Amen.
Copyright Christopher Dalton. 2016.
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