It's become my role to offer emotional support for the bereaved Simba. During the last few months of her life, my mother spent almost all of the time in bed, with Simba keeping her warm in the crook of her knee. In cat years, he's probably about the same age that she was. A couple of days back, my father (a declutterer if ever there was one: Marie Kondo has nothing on him) looked at the in-tray filled with cat blankets by the dining room radiator, and wondered if the time had come to throw it out - "Simba never uses it any more." Clearly he was overheard - Simba's been in it ever since - that is, when he's not wandering round the house yowling. I'd like to think this was the Yowl of the Bereft, but actually, he's done it for an age. Still, he speaks - he yowls - for us all, so I'm giving him all the attention I can. There's some parallel somewhere with the heartbreaking picture of George H. W. Bush's support dog sitting faithfully in front of the flag-draped casket - they are, at the very least, the same color ...
No comments:
Post a Comment