How to clean a catafalque…

CHRIS BENNETT enjoys a memorable cataclysm.

I AM sitting a cat; to be more precise I am sitting a kitten. That is to say, friends have gone on holiday to the North Coast for a few days and have asked me to take over the life and times of one Millicent.

Now why anyone would want to go on holiday on the North Coast, leaving a lovely home on the South Coast, is quite beyond me.

Maybe it has something to do with the tempo of life. My friends have lately been the recipients of the slings and arrows (not to mention complaints) that accompany a major earthworks exercise. Which is enough to make anyone want a holiday. Anywhere.

But to return to the feline distraction.

Millicent is my name for the cat, although I was tempted by Magnificat and Oedipus; whether or not there is another name has not been discussed.

My cottage has been appraised, weighed in the balance, so to speak, and has been found wanting; but not too seriously.

Clearly there are not enough things to play with, but being of an inventive inclination, that has not stopped Millicent from assuming that everything, especially if it moves, is to be played with.

There are of course certain things that move because they are sentient beings; like me. My extremities (fingers and toes, in case you were wondering) are seriously inviting as claw and teeth sharpeners, but they don’t move enough.

As for the bee that had the misfortune to buzz through the sunshine of the French windows and investigate the reading room, little could have been so amazing a source of fascination.

I am not sure that Millicent had seen, or heard, a bee before, but on this occasion, morning one, the event was a revelation; a marvel to behold. Not only did this thing move and buzz – it flew in circles, arabesques and sweeping glissandos. Or maybe that should be glissandi.

It had to be caught. After a few minutes of dancing on hind legs, shadow boxing and flying in circles, arabesques and sweeping glissandos, Millicent fell off the settee. There was a moment of quiet nonchalance and a brief, rather self-conscious, cleaning of paws. This, obviously, is the feline equivalent of profound embarrassment.

The bee, clearly annoyed to a hereto unknown pitch of buzz, flew out the French windows.

Back on the settee, Millicent gazed out of the slightly open widow. One of the little wooden knobs on a string that operate the Venetian blinds shivered in the breeze. Millicent bristled. Clearly this was going to be even better than the bee.

A few perfunctory grabs, and misses, were performed; then Millicent, who has quite obviously been reading the papers, decided that what was needed here was an end game. I should add that it is also quite obvious that she is a dab paw at chess.

What followed happened rather too quickly for a detailed description, but after a quick shot at decision making the offensive was launched. Millicent leaped onto the Venetian blind; the Venetian blind, on the other hand, was quite prepared. It flipped; literally.

Millicent was floored: her strategy was manifestly even more flawed. She returned to the subject of clean paws as if she had never left off.

Millicent impinges on the tranquillity of my life, and I can’t help thinking that it is about time something did.

I have on occasion related a bon mot that I read long ago, “Dogs have owners; cats have staff”.

Well, I was looking for a job anyway.

CB

25/3/11