I’m a bit of a
cat-whisperer.
I live about half
an hour’s walk away from the railway station; a route littered with
potential feline assignations. There’s Timmy (the tabby one with the docked tail), Sid
(black with white splodges), an as-of-yet unnamed black kitten – and, until a
couple of days ago there was also Dally: the ginger cat with the high-pitched miaow,
who liked to sunbathe in his front garden.
Non cat-lovers
are permitted to reach for the sick bucket.
It’s safe to say that
you’re either a cat person or you’re not. Correction: you’re either a cat person (Halle Berry), a ‘cat person’
(you like cats) or you’re not. I fall into the middle category; I’d look shit in a catsuit.
My
comedy partner Glyn would probably plump for option three. He once memorably described cats as
“pointless”. He’s mellowed over time (my cat Millie showing enough affection to
make him feel sufficiently guilty) – but generally, they’re not of much
interest.
.JPG)
A couple of years
ago I asserted subtle revenge: I bought him a kitten-themed birthday card
and scrawled the word ‘POINTLESS’ across the front of it.
Dally was one of the favourite parts of my daily commute. Even if I was running
late, I’d always make time to stoop down and say hello – and my bad mood would
be lifted. Dally had become a daily event.
Occasionally he’d
follow me a little further up the street, yelping at me until I stopped and
said hello again; he was a bit of a tart.
A couple of days
ago a sign went up to say that Dally had been hit by a car. Call me a softy but
I was genuinely upset.
Today is a
bright, sunny day. Dally would have loved it.