This is Chester.
When I come down to the writing room he’s sitting on the table next to the keyboard.
I take this gesture to mean that he’s not trying to be confrontational.
He’d be sitting on the keyboard if that was his intention.
Or, perhaps he’s trying to lull me into a false sense of security.
I try to read his expression, forgetting that cats down have expressions, just a single look.
I sit down and we’re now eye to eye. Could it be that he is doesn’t like the idea of looking up at me? Might that almost suggest that I am the master and he is the cat?
Perhaps I’m just tired and writing too much into it. Maybe he just saw a mouse and wanted to get an overview of where it might have gone.
Plenty of hiding places in this office. Chester knows some off them himself because there are times when I can’t find him.
Then he deigns to speak. “I think it’s time you cleaned this room up.”
It seems it’s a universal request from everyone, grandchildren included.
“Sorry. Not sorry. I’m going for the grumpy grandfather’s study children are forbidden to enter look. Piles of books, shelves overloaded with more books, messy tables, and papers scattered everywhere. And nowhere to sit because seats are places to pile more stuff.”
He looks around.
“Done a good job of it then. How do you find anything?”
“I found you.”
“I wasn’t hiding.”
“Oh, I thought you were.”
I’m sure there was that imperceptible shake of the head in disdain, before he jumps down and leaves.
Dodged a bullet there. I was sure he was going to complain about his food … again!