Whiskery beast

Whiskery beast

My wife is currently torn on the issue of whether or not we should get a cat or two, which is something we have always discussed and dismissed; but, like a woman who has set her heart on something that we all know is incredibly stupid, her flights of fancy have taken on a new, worryingly practical edge. How often, she wanted to know, are you supposed to feed a cat, and would we really need a scratching post?

Of course, if we ever do get a cat, it won’t be for a little while, since we’d first have to run the gauntlet of the animal shelter and emerge with a maximum of two cats, rather than the armful we’d be unable to resist. I don’t honestly feel up to that challenge.

But still, the image is unsettling. At some point in my future (maybe not this year, maybe not next year, but soon, and for the rest of my life), I’m faced with the prospect of being tyrranised by a whiskery beast stalking these rooms, demanding food in order to refuse it, shredding the soft furnishings and stealing snacks you wouldn’t think a cat would ever be interested in.

Apparently, cat owners are more intelligent than dog owners, which, the report admits, has more to do with the fact that cats can look after themselves while their humans are out getting degrees than any tendency to make wise decisions. I will, of course, do my best to remember that when whatever furry feline we incautiously allow into our abode discovers the invitingly dangling cables that connect the computer I am writing on now with the outside world. It will be a great comfort as I scrape a dried hairball off the floor or retrieve trinkets from under cupboards and sofas to know that I am a member of a questionable elite.