There used to be a cat living just across the road from me. The first time I met her I knew she was different class of cat. She was poised at the side of the road up ahead as I set off on an evening walk. I expected her, like most farm cats, to crouch and squint suspiciously before disappearing like a wraith in to the ditch. She confounding all my expectations by mincing out into the middle of the road to get a good look at me before sashaying at speed towards me throwing miaows out as an actress would flick a fur stole over her shoulder. This cat was a diva in the mould of Gloria Swanson or Joan Crawford.
She ran up to me miaowing urgently, a fluffy mule made feline. She demanded I pick her up so I did. One does not refuse a diva. She held on digging her red painted nails (they weren’t but they should have been) into my shoulders while mewling dramatically into my face. All of a sudden she stopped, ears back, and then, head turning from side to side, her green, exotic eyes narrowing…
“It’s the Gestapo darling, I simply MUST go!” ..I imagined she hissed,
“…but never forget that I will always have felines for you!Vive la resistance!”
Exit, paw to forehead, hedge left.
Since then we met often and with as much drama. I played along with her delusions of stardom. I never dared tell her I first took her for a farm cat, she never would have spoken to me again.
It has been a long time since I have seen Cat Diva, I guess she has gone to the Sunset Boulevard in the sky. It would be more her scene than Sunset Tertiary Road…
“I am big!”…
I can hear her hiss..
“It’s the hedges that got small…”