Oh, Demon Cat. No other member of the Chiswick tribe will get their own alphabetical entry in the survival guide bar Demon Cat. But Demon Cat is the only ‘person’ (yes, I know he’s a cat) to be identified – that cat photo on my homepage really is him (although admittedly, he doesn’t look very demonic there.) Plus, Breakfast Girl requested that I wrote about Demon Cat when she commented on an earlier blog post so here we are.
If there were three things you should know about my relationship with Demon Cat, this is it:
1) I most certainly did not agree with Slish and Wonder Boy that using the hoover behind Demon Cat was a good idea when it clearly scared the bejesus out of him. I trust that it still does.
2) The family did the annual summer pilgrimage to the States twice while I lived there, which meant I had full-reign (yes, I know) of the house while they were away. OK, well, not quite. Of course Demon Cat also stayed. I kept him alive with water and food (although he only eats solid cat grub. Crazy Yank told me the vet said: “That’s all he needs.” Demon Cat would eat outside my room and sound particularly demonic doing so. Crunch, crunch, crunch, was thankfully the sound of fish flavoured food and not the sound of human bones cracking.) Still, it was during these times when we were on our own that we bonded most. But not when each morning before work, I had to toss him out of the house all day until I came back (there are no cat flaps at the house.) He’d sleep in Wonder Boy’s top bunk bed and would not budge. I’d get some cuddly toy and nudge him. When that wouldn’t work, I’d have to make my own demonic sounds and clap to move him. These actions, combined with said nudging with a one foot tall dinosaur, usually did the trick.
3) Demon Cat was the last one to say goodbye to me when I left the house. The others were in the States and I moved out the day before Crazy Yank arrived back. I remember sitting with him on the doormat and talking to him. Telling him I was going and that I’ll miss him. He was in one of his rare moods where he seemed to enjoy human contact. He began to purr. And then I shed a tear or two as I opened the door and he darted out into the August sunshine.
Confessions of a reluctant lodger 