Rachel says she is worn out by our behaviour. We are driving her crazy.
All because we run and hide whenever anyone comes near. Rachel says we should know by now that she has to come through the kitchen many times a day, and that she isn’t going to touch us, let alone do anything awful to us.
She doesn’t understand why we scoot under the kitchen table every time, and look at her with big scared eyes.
We don’t know either. We just do it. Every time.
She thinks it’s all Hamish’s fault. She says he transmits his fearfulness to me, and that if I was on my own I’d be a lap cat by now. She notices that I will rub against her legs when she’s cooking, and says that the way to my heart is through my stomach.
I’m not sure what she means, though. The way to my stomach is through my mouth, that’s what I know.
She worries most about Hamish; she hates the thought that he lives his life feeling scared. I’ve lived with Rachel for almost a year, and Hamish came before Christmas, and he’s worse than me – he’s still frightened of everything, except the dog and us cats.
Rachel says she’s at her wits’ end. She needs a psychologist, we think.