Do You Like Cats?
I cannot say I do. Well, perhaps.
I cannot, in all honesty, say that I love cats.
This, despite the fact that I have a long history of having cats in my life.
As a child, my step grandma fed about a dozen cats in our ancestral home. The cats, of all stripes, waited and assembled in the sheltered back porch just outside the kitchen.
They ate together around a large, oblong, white-enamelled tray. (Think of a tray when a huge roast turkey is placed on the dining table.)
The cats did not enter the house. They did not want to tussle with Rusty. He was a big, furry dog (a well-behaved one, mind) that roamed the first floor of the house between rests and feeding.
Another dog, a fierce guard dog, was leashed in an open doghouse by the gate. His name was blotted in my memory. Deliberately. Perhaps because he almost bit me when I once gave him his lunch. (Ungrateful sod, or perhaps he envied Rusty for being free.)
As an adult (married and working in New Zealand), there was a neighbour’s cat that befriended me. Looking thin and hungry, this lovely cat would sit outside my kitchen, her eyes on me through the glass window, imploringly, while I made coffee or washed the breakfast dishes.
