My Teacher

5th August 2011 Friday

When I come downstairs this morning I’m sure I can smell cat spray in the pussy cat’s area in the kitchen. Maybe that black tom is back. I clean everything down including the cat flap and the boot rack and the walls and units. I can still smell it. Then I see them - right by the back door - the two pots of purple basil my husband brought back from the allotment the other day. I laugh and push my nose into the leaves - and there it is - a strong smell of cat pee...

We are out all day - walking and talking with a new friend along the coastal path high above the sea at Brixham.

We don’t get home till nearly seven. No pussy cat to greet us. He hasn’t touched his food. I search the house. Call him in the garden. I start to worry. Then I have an idea. I check the cat flap. It’s locked. I must have slipped the catch closed when I cleaned it this morning. I open the front door and there he is. He has been shut out all day. I am mortified. He eats a bit of tuna and then he is sick. Four times. But I think it’s his ongoing stomach thing and not because he couldn’t get in the house. Not because he’s cross with me.

He’s sleeping now. He’s endlessly patient and forgiving. He is my teacher.