I normally plant a kiss on his head, as he is more than a cat, he is my friend in this life.  For so long I’ve listened to everything that my cat told me.  Well, it’s not that it actually talked.  It’s just that I get a notion from it, what is ‘liked’, and what is ‘disliked’.  Typing is a crime – that’s one notion I’ve gleaned.  Be a good old-fashionder and just put pen to paper – so says my cat who sits so nicely composed in his quiet spot, warm, by the window where the light streams in, probably thinking.  I know my cat well.  Every mannerism, quirk of the ears, slight flick of the tail, contented slow wink of the eyes, and more than that I also know his personality – what makes him happy: play-time with the ribbon outside, or running up the stairs after snacks thrown up to the landing (my way of getting the cat to exercise whilst eating), and what makes him scared or bothered: which would be people or other animals stomping in and about the house.  He respects me; I respect him.  We give each other a good cuddle every now and then & we also give each other our space. He sits on my right hand side, of the my table.  In his box, filled with straw. This is not just my cat, my friend, this is my right hand man.  And woe the day that he leaves this table that I must feast at all the time.  Yes, my Life is a Feast. And Fate is the Chef.  And the cat is with me through this, I hope.


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