My first kitten - an autobiographical fragment
It is, of course, the dream of every young boy to have a kitten of his own, and thus it was with great excitement that we drove to the RSPCA centre in Leeds to pick ours up. My housemate, the bearded and peculiar Dr Harry was driving. I sat next to him, tense, nervous and eager as a new parent waiting for good news.
Technically, it wasn’t a kitten we were picking up, but a young cat. However, such details are trivial. He was ours.
The RSPCA was staffed by severe looking nurses. After viewing us disapprovingly, one such nurse gave us our instructions. The cat was dazed, owing to the “operation” he’d had. We winced. No details necessary. He was drugged up. We could understand that. He’d need feeding scrambled eggs. This was less intelligible. But people wearing white coats said it with authority, and who were we to argue?
We took him home. His name was already decided upon – Glorious Five Year Plan. A fine name for a cat. If a touch long. A shorter nickname would be applied later.
He was released into the living room. Watching it was a truly magical experience. It is not every day that one can say one has seen a stoned cat stretch to his full length and stagger out of a cardboard box, before stumbling around and collapsing. Drugs and no balls. That’s enough to leave anybody in a vulnerable position. I went to cook his eggs.
Perhaps the salt and pepper weren’t necessary. I felt, however, it was important to give our new guest the best. My other housemate, the fallen angel Steve, watched, with some bemusement. It was he who had challenged our requirement for a cat.
“What do you want one for, anyway?” he had asked, weeks ago, non-plussed at the prospect of feline company.
“So we can get stoned, and it can sit on us,” was my response, stating, what I thought, was the obvious.
Later on, Steve and Glorious Five Year Plan failed to see eye-to-eye on many issues…to such an extent that the cat’s nickname became Steve. Dr Harry and myself considered it amusing to refer to Steve as “T’Other Steve”.
“Have you seen Steve? His girlfriend’s on the phone.”
“Yes, he’s sat in front of the telly, licking his arse.”
“Sorry, I mean T’Other Steve.”
Glorious Five Year Plan failed to enjoy his scrambled eggs. He disappeared several months later – on the morning, indeed, of Mr Tony Blair’s first election victory. I like to believe he was carried away by the thought of helping to usher in a glorious new Socialist dawn, and headed to Downing Street, plans for the nationalisation of leading monopolies clutched firmly in his paws. Given later events, I can only surmise he never made it there.
Technically, it wasn’t a kitten we were picking up, but a young cat. However, such details are trivial. He was ours.
The RSPCA was staffed by severe looking nurses. After viewing us disapprovingly, one such nurse gave us our instructions. The cat was dazed, owing to the “operation” he’d had. We winced. No details necessary. He was drugged up. We could understand that. He’d need feeding scrambled eggs. This was less intelligible. But people wearing white coats said it with authority, and who were we to argue?
We took him home. His name was already decided upon – Glorious Five Year Plan. A fine name for a cat. If a touch long. A shorter nickname would be applied later.
He was released into the living room. Watching it was a truly magical experience. It is not every day that one can say one has seen a stoned cat stretch to his full length and stagger out of a cardboard box, before stumbling around and collapsing. Drugs and no balls. That’s enough to leave anybody in a vulnerable position. I went to cook his eggs.
Perhaps the salt and pepper weren’t necessary. I felt, however, it was important to give our new guest the best. My other housemate, the fallen angel Steve, watched, with some bemusement. It was he who had challenged our requirement for a cat.
“What do you want one for, anyway?” he had asked, weeks ago, non-plussed at the prospect of feline company.
“So we can get stoned, and it can sit on us,” was my response, stating, what I thought, was the obvious.
Later on, Steve and Glorious Five Year Plan failed to see eye-to-eye on many issues…to such an extent that the cat’s nickname became Steve. Dr Harry and myself considered it amusing to refer to Steve as “T’Other Steve”.
“Have you seen Steve? His girlfriend’s on the phone.”
“Yes, he’s sat in front of the telly, licking his arse.”
“Sorry, I mean T’Other Steve.”
Glorious Five Year Plan failed to enjoy his scrambled eggs. He disappeared several months later – on the morning, indeed, of Mr Tony Blair’s first election victory. I like to believe he was carried away by the thought of helping to usher in a glorious new Socialist dawn, and headed to Downing Street, plans for the nationalisation of leading monopolies clutched firmly in his paws. Given later events, I can only surmise he never made it there.
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