An English In Kentucky



















December 16th 2009

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     During the absence of his mistress the Grey Cat has revealed an aspect of personality that I truly hoped would remain hidden in a dark recess of his heart.  He is in those first tentative stages of a process that will result in an appalling dominance over me.  

    Other cats, distant cats, cats we used to share space with, usually achieved this level of association with my dinner bowl in the latter part of their middle age.  I have experienced ice cream cats, chicken cats, and cats that are willing to eat anything, so long as it comes from my bowl, rather than from their bowl.

    I argue that blame should be assigned to those moments of weakness around the kitchen sink which can result in - "Oh look he likes green beans!"   And here I think it only correct to point out that I have never been personally responsible for circumstances that result in such fragile and cooing expression.



    But there are some aggressive minds which will insist that the fault is mine because I prefer to eat on my knee in the comfort of an arm chair, rather than surrounded by knives and forks and wooden surfaces.   

    Yet I have been at this impasse before.  A peaceful reverie during feeding time that becomes struggle.  A familiar and time worn procession of events that always begins with a declaration that I will never eat standing up.  This is followed quickly by the suggestion that I would never dream of eating from the Cat's bowl.  Then in ultimate frustration a loud and furious "go away."  But these declarations, these adjectives of intent have always been a brief and pointless interlude.  

    Soon there will be a swaggering Grey Cat with his own bowl by my chair.   

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tim candler

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