This is Chester. He’s been caught almost red-handed climbing the curtains.
Of course, he is all innocence, because the evidence is circumstantial. He was sitting on the window ledge looking out, thinking ‘if only I could get out there’.
Now he’s thinking how much trouble he’s in and whether it will be his least favorite cat food for dinner.
No, I’m not that mean.
Not unless I catch him red-handed.
This is Chester. Somedays, like today, he is an accomplice.
In what, you may ask.
I got a DM (a direct mail in Twitter) from someone who wants to ask a few questions and write a little piece about me in their blog.
Why? Chester asks. He’s been sitting beside me staring at the same screen I have, and it finally got the better of him.
They asked I replied.
But what about the last person who tried to get simple answers to simple questions?
I was in a frivolous mood, I tell him.
That’s most days, isn’t it? Unless, of course, you’ve dozed off after a long night trying to get words on theoretical paper.
OK, so he’s trying to annoy me. It’s working.
The first question, tell us a little about yourself.
So, what do I say? Suave and sophisticated.
A sidelong look from an obviously amused cat. I can tell by the expression on his face.
And then the words, don’t use words of more than two syllables, and worse, use words you don’t know the meaning of.
That’s why I have a thesaurus and dictionary on the computer.
He lets that pass.
So I have been around long enough to have many experiences, go to many places, see many people, and do stuff.
Do stuff? What the hell is ‘stuff’?
You know, stuff. Looking at stuff, eating stuff, sitting on stuff.
Groan.
He gets up, gives me that pitiful look of disdain, and leaves.
I shrug. Maybe tomorrow, when he’s in a better mood.
This is Chester. He is giving me the ‘Come back when you’ve rewritten the start’ look.
Yet another ‘disagreement’ over such a small matter!
Here’s the thing.
Like many authors with cats, I like to use Chester as my audience of one, my sounding board. It is better to be reading to him, rather than reading out loud by yourself.
Reading what you have written often points out tongue tangling or ‘drippy’ dialog, and unfortunate mix ups in words. Proof reading sometimes misses these.
Hitherto, Chester has been patient, lying on the floor, or sitting on the couch.
I guess a few pats doesn’t go astray in the process.
But, this morning, reading him the new start to ‘First Dig Two Graves’ the sequel to ‘The Devil You Don’t’, he just gave me one of his angry ‘meow’s’ and left.
Obviously he didn’t like it.
Of course, after I re-read it again, I could see the problem, so the days writing is not over yet.
This is Chester. He is contemplating the mess on the floor.
I’ve asked him many times to stop unraveling the extension cords, or to play with it as it it was a ball of string.
I’m not sure he understands the implications of playing with electrical wires.
Yet.
He is recovering from the visit by our grand children.
Sometimes, when they’re very quiet, he assumes they have gone. He comes down to see what’s for dinner, or if there are any ‘snacks’.
Then, suddenly he realizes they have not gone, and panic sets in.
Sometimes he gets away.
Sometimes he is trapped, and forced to take large doses of child affection.
Yesterday, it was very close.
This is Chester. Hiding.
He is the proverbial ‘scaredy cat’.
He is in hiding, buried at the back of the shelving in our walk in robe, one of the few places he thinks the grand children don’t know about.
Think again, Chester!
He pays scant regard to the fact he moults hair all over our clothes.
Efforts to fill the hole have been met with stiff resistance, the ‘blockage’ finding its way to the floor.
A bit like the blankets he doesn’t like on his bed.
Chester is 16 years old. He has had a tumultuous relationship with my grand children, who, at first, wanted to terrorize him, and now, older and wiser, want to make friends with him.
Sorry, no can do. You had your chance.
But …
He’s warming to the 12 year old. Perhaps because she is as tall as us, he is confused.
Her efforts to get him to sleep on the end of her bed have failed.
Perhaps we should switch beds, and I might win that battle after all.
This is Chester. He had been shocked by my transformation into someone he least likely expected to find in his domain.
After a chastisement, I told him he could expect more shocks in the days to follow.
Why he asks. All I want is a peaceful life lying in the sun by the window, and no pesky mice to chase.
Sorry, I say. I’m playing roles for my next book. Trying to get the feel for the character.
A drunk, a fool, and a man who does household chores. You’re failed in all three, just in case you want to know what I think.
I don’t.
The cat doesn’t have a sense of humour, or if he does, I’m not seeing it.
I think you’ve got it wrong. Not a drunk, a man with physical disabilities, not a fool but a clown who’s lost his will to perform, and yes, I am the one who does the cooking and cleaning,
And who’s in charge of feeding you? Anything else you care to add?
Looking good, keep up the good work, but how about fresh fish rather than that packet stuff.
This is Chester. Back on the bed.
Another argument lost, another smug ‘I’ve got the better of you, again’ look.
Time to move on, pick a battle I think I can win.
Food. There’s the old wives tale, that cats love fish, and it’s true to a certain extent.
Chester doesn’t believe fish live in cans or plastic packets, despite how it’s dressed up. Fresh fish, he’s into it, but there always seems to be a measured reluctance to eat something out of a can.
I think he regards us humans with disdain when our food comes out of a can or packet.
He refuses to eat the leftovers!
Then there’s chicken, or its more expensive neighbor, turkey.
He loves turkey.
I’m sure he’d eat quail and spatchcock too, but no, he’s a cat, and cats have to get used to eating chicken. We’ve had this discussion, one too many times.
And just for good measure, I told him if he thinks he’s coming to Italy with us, he’d better get used to the idea of eating pasta.
Of course, always with the last word, he said, quite nonchalantly, ‘then you’d better call me Garfield’.
Grrrrrrr.
This is Chester. He’s pretending to be wise.
We’re having a discussion about perspective. I’m trying to explain that it is different for every person.
He reckons from his perspective, I’ve lost the plot.
So, I say, this is how it goes.
Imagine you’re arrested for a crime you didn’t commit. All the evidence is circumstantial, your gun is missing, and only two people know the combination, you can’t get corroboration on your whereabouts at the time of the crime, and you were heard to say you wanted to kill the victim.
A measured look of thoughtfulness followed by, he’s guilty of course.
Why I ask.
Give a man a gun and it’s bound to go off. That’s the problem with you humans. You need to figure out how to get along with each other without having a gun to back you up. Have you ever seen a cat with a gun? No, I didn’t think so.
How did this get to be about guns and not perspective? I ask.
Leave the gun out of the equation, then it’s only circumstantial. Just saying.
I shake my head. Why am I talking to a cat?
This is Chester. T for Tonkinese, capital T for trouble.
If you think you can win an argument with a Tonkinese you are sadly mistaken!
So, we got over the abandonment issues, and have moved onto the sleeping arrangements. There seems to be some misconceptions on Chester’s part.
He thinks the bed is his domain.
Right.
We have provided him with several very comfortable, warn, and inviting places about the house where is he quite welcome to sleep, or keep a watchful eye over his domain.
That’s right, I thought I owned the house.
He has his own bed in our room where he can stay when he feels lonely, but it seems he has to be near us.
When he’s not walking across the bed, and us, or ‘resting’ on our feet.
And if we move, you’d think we’d taken a big stick to him.
Come to think of it …
Just to show his displeasure at his bed, the blankets always seem to be on the floor, and when I ask what happened, it was, of course, Mr Nobody.
After I’ve picked them up six times in a day, I ask him what his last slave died of?
And there’s the Siamese coming out, a snarl, and then aloof dismissal.
There is banishment to the great outdoors, but that’s another story.
This is Chester.
Don’t be fooled by the benign expression, I’m getting the ‘your conversation better improve, and quickly’ look.
I guess it’s the talkative Tonkinese in him, tempered by the crabby Siamese part.
But …
We were talking about the state of the world, and he agrees it isn’t looking good, especially for travelers in Europe. Of course, he is averse to either of us leaving him alone for any length of time, so he would say it was unsafe and we’d better stay at home.hat
I suppose that selfish part comes from the Burmese in him.
However …
I have scratched Germany, Austria, France and England off the list for the time being and consider it’s time to see a lot more of Italy.
We’ve been there several times, to Rome, in summer, to look at the Ancient ruins (Chester was rather impressed when I showed him a picture of the Collosseum), to Florence several times, just for the ambiance, and to Venice simply because we love it.
Then, we have also spent a few days in Tuscany, in an apartment very close to the town center of Greve in Chianti.
Chester, of course, was dismissive, but, he says, if we agree to take him with us …
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 