After years of sterling service for five human children, the cot mattress has passed to child number six. It’s just about long enough, but it wasn’t designed for galgo legs. Mind you, we bought the biggest dog basket in existence, and that wasn’t either.
Yesterday, the Ninnie cat ventured forth in the dark. She boldly went where Ninnie rarely goes for fear of things that go bump and bite. Usually silent, we heard her growl and hiss beneath the window, a scuffle then the thud as she ran (she thuds). I flung open the window and called, but she didn’t reply (she’s a cat of sorts) and she can’t jump so high anyway. Fearing the worst, we grabbed flashlights and ran for the door. She was on the porch, still growling, staring into the night. The flashlight showed the terror, the wild beast, unperturbed beneath the window where I had hung, shouting—a hare.
Today is world otter day. I don’t know any otters, but this little cat, daft as a brush, a sandwich short of a picnic, bonkers, batty and totally à l’ouest as we say over here, is as sweet as any sea otter.