Today I would like to talk to you about Fat Cat. The idea for this post came to me at 3 am this morning as I listened to Fat Cat yowling and pacing around the house like a caged panther. She does that sometimes, actually, she does that most nights. I guess in this particular instance Fat Cat was simply expressing her displeasure. She doesn't like encountering closed bedroom doors, nor does she like being left out in the rain. I'm sure you can imagine the expression on her face when I let her in the back door after she had been head butting the cat flap for some time. Not only was her forehead slightly flattened, but she was also doing the I've got a wet tail and back paws jiggle, oh, the indignity of it all.
Fat Cat came to us quite some time ago. Her exact age has now become somewhat of an urban legend. Two weeks ago I guessed she was fifteen, last weekend The Coach pegged her at eighteen, all we know for certain is that she is at least over thirteen (due to the fact that we had her before we got married). Anyway, the fact is that she's quite old, but I think she missed the memo.
Fat Cat still likes to gallop, I would use the term run but really, if you were in the other room and you heard the noise, you would definitely think a small horse was doing laps up and down the hallway. If only I had known how much joy could be found in one wayward bead I could have saved a fortune on cat toys.
Aside from the fact that she likes to gallop, Fat Cat often seems to be experiencing some form of species identity crisis. She will follow you anywhere, even for a stroll up the street, if that's where you're heading. And she will lie next to your feet when you stop. I'm sure she would bark at you if she could. She also likes to position herself in the centre of the kitchen and will stare up at you, meowing and lifting a paw if you talk to her. Cat, horse, dog, person ? No wonder she's confused.
Fat Cat came into our lives as a palm sized, four week old stray kitten and has shown us time and time again that alley cat blood runs through her veins. She has terrorised the husband of a friend, who was a policeman no less. She has chased The Coach's younger (but fully grown) brother down the hallway. She has hidden under a car and launched an attack on an unsuspecting doberman who much to the embarrassment of it's owner, howled and attempted to run into the hills. And she has taken on the pizza delivery car, but in that case, the pizza delivery car won.
I know that Fat Cats days with us are numbered, after all, she is somewhere between 70 and 89 human years old (depending on who you talk to and how many wines have been consumed) and her departure will leave a gaping hole in the Waffler household. So tonight, when I am woken up at the wee hours by the pacing and yowling, rather than grumbling I will give her a tickle under the chin and pop her back on her tower of cushions. We love you Fat Cat.