His amber eyes stare at me, narrowed on both axes, but do not deign to blink.
His nose is out of joint because of the kitten, whom he – commander of the house – only tolerates.
He yawns, flashing the snaggle-tooth that hurts so much when he bites.
The worst is yet to come.
Soon he will pay a ‘special’ visit to the vet – another consequence of the young blade that has joined our household and usurped his laply throne.
I couldn’t voice what is to be done to his fuzzy plums, waving my hand and making a snipping motion with my fingers.
It is the responsible thing, the right thing, the safe thing, the convenient thing…
…but to do to a pet what one would never do to oneself?
For the sake of an easy life?
The cat who saved my life, hunter of moles, home to fleas, he of the chipped tooth and unclipped claws.
Panthera tigris minimus, with coffee-stained chin and offset nose, fur of petrichor redolence.
The Alarm clock, the hero, the saviour, confidante, muse and master of the gardens.
Is he to be reduced to the state of a simpering eunuch?
This feline who, every day, gives me reason to get up, gives me love and affection.
This furry beast who – with touch of paw, push of head and raucous meow, the likes of which I’ve never heard again – broke into a closed room to save me.
Would he do it again for me?