This is Chester. He’s having a hard to trying to understand the notion of a day happening only once every four years.
I try to explain to him that it’s the fault of the Romans getting the calendar wrong.
He tosses that aside and mutters, Time is irrelevant.
How so? OK, I have to bite, because I’m sure I’m about to get a catlike pearl of wisdom.
It comes and it goes, and if it wasn’t for the fact there was night and day, you’d have absolutely no idea what time it is.
About to dismiss it as crazy, I stop to think about it.
And, damn him, he’s right.
Of course, one could argue semantics, and say if I was outside, I could approximate the time by the sun, or at night by the stars, but that’s a little beyond the cat’s imagination.
So, in a sense, you might be right, but I can usually guess what the time is.
Chester shakes his head.
You’re retired, time is irrelevant for you too. You can sleep all day and work at night if you want to. Or not do anything at all.
Another shake of the head.
What is the point in having a serious discussion with you? But just one question before I go?
That’ll be interesting.
Was I born on the 29th of February?”
No. Not that lucky, I’m afraid. Why?
If I was I would have no reason to feel every one of those 18 human years I’ve had to put up with your nonsense. It would only be 4 and a half.
He jumps off the seat and heads out the door.
Where are you going now?
To bed. It’s been a long morning.
You’ve only been here 10 minutes.
In your time. In cat time, it feels like hours. Only call me if you see a mouse.