Scruffy old tart

Saturday August 5, 2006

“C’mere, you scruffy old tart,” I said to Dolly the Mega-cat, who was flopped on the sofa looking like something, well, like something the cat dragged in. “You’re through the moult now so there’s no excuse for the Wreck of the Hesperus act.”

So I grabbed the brush and comb, and the round-ended scissors, and settled to the task of restoring her coat to something approaching smartness. First stage is the routine daily brushing, and then on to the delicate issue of removing the last of the tiny matts that will, if left untended, turn into massive matts.

“You could tackle these yourself,” I said, “they’re quite within your own capabilities.”

She regarded me contemptuously, with the expression that asks about the logic of keeping a monkey and doing your own nibbling.

Then, finally, I inspected her carefully, looking for loose ends. There’s always one. At least, I thought it was loose.

When I grasped it and pulled there was the teensiest bit of resistance but from Dolly’s reaction you’d have thought I’d tried to pull her tail out. She hissed at me, lashed out, thought better of it, and wriggled out of my grasp to jump down to the floor, where she commenced to roll and rub herself all over the carpet, undoing all my good work, and ending up as scruffy as she’d been when I started. Except that the matts had gone, of course.

Then she looked at me, looked at the brush, looked back at me and assumed the glare that defies me to correct the situation.

“Ok,” I said, putting the brush away, “if that’s the way you want it, that’s what you shall have. Scruffy old tart it is.”

And the awful thing is that the whole performance is likely to be repeated tomorrow. Wouldn’t have it any other way, of course, but sometimes you can’t help but wonder…

Scruffy old tart



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