Fearing the worst, I crept into our neighbours’ house whispering a tremulous cry of, “Tilly?” Silence. Nothing. Bugger.
My calls were aimed upstairs on the basis of spurious logic that that was where I last saw the cat headed. (See yesterday.) I hesitated before going upstairs in someone else’s house, I mean where you live is one thing, but where you sleep is another.
After wandering around indecisively for a while, I found her. Tilly curled up on an armchair with a, “What’s your problem?” look on her face. She followed me into the kitchen (eventually) to have a nibble at the food I’d put down before sodding off out of the back door.
I was relieved. Tilly lives, even if the same can’t be said for other small wildlife. And there my fondness with cats ends and with dogs begins.
Cats give nothing, they only take. And they kill things that mostly I don’t need killing. Dogs are an erratic satellite of love that is unquestioning. They would quite like to murder a squirrel, or a magpie, or a duck, but know it won’t happen.
They woof and the problem disappears in a flurry of fur or feathers. The dog has done its job. The order of the house.
Cats? Total bloody anarchy!