The old human lady came for the afternoon over Easter. She never remembers my name and asks, "What's her name?" when I amble round through the doorway. I swivel an ear back but carry on purposefully. I'm not a 'her' and I don't respond to folk calling my name anyway. I'll come to see you when I want and only then. After all, I'm a cat!
I noticed as she pottered about she was humming 'Around the world in eighty days' to herself. Don't ask me how I know of the song; just accept that cats have an infinite wisdom of the human world passed down by means of interminable purring from wise old puss to kitten. It led me to thinking back when I was a young whippersnapper plying my skills down the lane. Yes, I had a skate-board, an earring; but my 3lb mobile phone had to be carried in my back pack.
Mister had to wind his car window up by hand. The exercise, I'm sure, staved off obesity.
The Internet took 2 minutes to load a page and you had to put £3.00 in the kitty to pay for that exciting privilege; only to find it wasn't the page you wanted anyway.
Humans went to shops to buy things.
Cat food came in tins. (Labelled in English.)
On Friday nights local cats all met down the pub for a pint or two, a chat about the ones that got away, and a smoke. Then we'd hook paws over shoulders and stagger back singing 'Show me the way to go home,' or 'We bring 'em back alive.'
As I listen to the young human's music today. The punk, the house, the rap, the hip hop; I wonder if in the future some old human will be gently humming in a shakey voice, "Yo! Get down bitch!" and jerking about as they make themselves a heart warming cup of tea.
Herkopheles
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