|The brindle cat sleeps at the end of the bed. She is curled into herself. Her paws tucked under her furry whiskered cheek and her tail neatly encircling her whole body like half a frame making her form look like a small neat compact device.
I was walking around Lake Monger one early autumn morning when I found her, or she found me. Walking for exercise and peace of mind before the day fully realized itself. The slight chill in the air at Easter is always my favourite time of year weather wise. I was strolling on the path taking my time nodding to joggers, cyclers and other fellow walkers thinking that soon it would be time to see the cute little ducklings and cygnets running behind their mothers trying to keep up. To see them would always fill me with a light anxiety when one of the group would be lagging behind and the mother seemingly ignorant to the fact, but be grateful when the little one would realise and scamper off to catch up with the family. Unfortunately the cycle of tension and relief would repeat itself over and over because there were so many birds having families in the lake that I like to avoid those times of the year. When I discovered the brindle cat I was completely relaxed. No little chicks to worry about just a little furry animal. It was like she came out of the bulrushes as if to greet me. At the exact moment I walked by she stepped out with a yawn. Who knows where she came from? But my instinct told me she had been abandoned. Although the evidence was that she had run away as she was still wearing her collar. The collar was purple and one side was caught under her front leg. She looked ok, just a little dishevelled. I scooped her up in my jacket and took her home.
She is now a fixture on the end of my bed, like a living breathing pillow. I call her Puss-Puss. I had grown tired of the fashion of people calling their pet’s human names. What happened to Boots, Tiddles and Felix? They had all been replaced with Martin, Andrew and would you believe Steve? One day I heard a lady on my street calling out “Steve, Steve, come here now!” I thought it quite harsh a demand to a husband then I saw this little poodle running up to her. To me that dog should have been called Curley. So Puss-Puss it is. She doesn’t mind, all she cares about are rubs on the belly, saucy fish dinners Friskies in between and the corner at the end of my bed.