Leave nothing but footprints


Every morning, when we are up and allowed out, I go visiting. First I call on Sandra, two doors dow; I stand on her wall, her windowsills, or even the roof of her car port, from where I can squint into her dining room, till she comes out to say hello. If the back door is open, I just walk in unannounced. It’s my civic duty to visit humans and check that they’re not lonely.

Then I move on to visit Lesley further down, and finally, I go to Suzy’s, to remind fat Hattie that it’s my tree, although it’s in her yard. The branches are covered in my fur. This signals that they’re mine, like the bathing towels of a certain European nation, left on hotel poolside chairs at dawn as a sign of ownership.

Yesterday was a bit different. I hopped up onto Sandra’s windowsill, and she squawked at me that there was wet paint on it. Honestly, how silly of her to think it would be dry before I arrived! Nasty sticky stinky stuff; not conducive to feline elegance or poise.

I had to have my feet washed, and then be carried home to Rachel, who just gave me a Look, and carried me indoors for more paw-wiping before letting me stand on the floor. Then she watched me carefully.

And then she made a sound.”Harrumph!”

I know what she meant. Cream masonry paint is so not my colour.

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5 thoughts on “Leave nothing but footprints

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