Nutmeg

Nutmeg came strolling into the office.

I had slept at the woman’s house the last two nights and now I suppose that he wanted my attention.  He had been tripping me up the whole day whenever he had the chance and now, belly full, he came for yet another dose of attention.  He is a very strange cat.  I struggle to believe that nobody wanted this four year old furry love-bundle.  Ginger like I wanted, a hot water bottle that everybody should own.

When he walks he has all the ego and confidence and arrogance you expect from a tom. As he jumped onto the desk the illusion of supremacy, along with my note books and loose papers and ashtray full of butt-ends, came crashing down.

He was obviously embarressed.  After such a moment, you would think the cat would run for the hills so not to suffer the shame.  He did not. Instead, he hid under my desk. I stood up so I could see him. He looked up at me, gave a gentle mew and found a safer route via the spare office chair and back to where he wanted to be.

A few days earlier, he had virtually destroyed the printer when he jumped on it.  Fortunately I could get between the printer and the ground before anything overly nasty could happen. that time he ran for the hills and just as well; I had wanted to belt the crap out of him.

Nutmeg; In nearly forty years of cat ownership, I  have never met a cat so at odds with gravity’s effects.

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