Kat the Cat has a stalker!
It’s more than a little bit disturbing. Tom Cat has been staking out our humble home for the past week, and shows no signs of losing interest, while Kat has been displaying every sign that she is, underneath her cute and furry exterior, a bit cheap. The Sister is unamused that Tom feels the need to sit in the back garden every night directly beneath her bedroom window, howling mournfully, presumably out of love, passion and lust. Kat, meanwhile, has clearly lost her mind and is spending many, many hours staring obsessively out of the window, occasionally crying pitifully.
It may be cruel of me to stand in the way of true love like this, but I cannot bring myself to encourage this relationship. Tom is, in a word, manky. In more than a word, he is manky, scruffy, smelly, scary and potentially disease-ridden.
“You can do so much better than him, Kat,” said The Sister firmly last night as we tried to reason with our lovestruck feline housemate. “You can,” I added sadly, “he’s not good enough for you.” Kat said nothing, but very deliberately turned her back on us and gazed out into the night.
It’s a little spooky to be taking the rubbish out to the bin and realise, upon your return across the back yard, that you are being intently watched by your cat’s stalker, who is perched on the gatepost, staring angrily and unflinchingly at you. I backed nervously into the house and shut the door, fumbling with the key in the lock. The Sister came in as I was pressing my face up against the window, trying to see if he was still there. “What’s going on?” she asked in surprise.
“He’s out there,” I said flatly, locked in a stare-to-stare battle with Tom Cat. “Watching. Waiting.”
“I don’t feel safe here any more,” said The Sister, sadly.
“Miaow,” said Kat the Cat.