means only one thing. Thom the Cat, the Lothario of Kirkstall Gardens is limping/off his food/not been seen for 24 hours/been seen crossing a main road........
One moves in to a district hoping to make friends, but knowing that the chances of sharing interests with one's neighbours are medium to slim. So it is with Kirkstall Gardens, a quiet road of semi-detached houses blessed by a green, the happy result of history and a wonky street grid. When it snows the taxi driver offers Susie a lift to the station. When the nervous woman at no.-- reports a stranger to the police, the young constable does a house-to-house confident in the knowledge that turning down offers of tea and cake won't cause offence. When the young woman at no -- practices her fire-spinning act in the street we're full of admiration. Controversy comes by rarely - letters to the Council when someone organises a children's party on the green. We're not a sociable street. We don't gather for coffee mornings or bring and buy sales. We say hello in the street, or if we meet in Waitrose, but that's about it......
There is but one of us who socialises furiously. A 3.45 kilo bundle of simpering, womanising fur, sporting the sweetest face and a long fluffy tail. Butter wouldn't melt in his mouth, but that doesn't stop half a dozen members of his extended harem serving him slices of chicken or those little tubs of Sheba that no cat with an ounce of self-respect would look at. He's to be seen, waiting on a front step, not just on this street, but on New Park Road, or even the flats beyond our back garden, waiting, secure in the knowledge that the door will open and a woman of a certain age (certainly over 65) will offer him delights that one would think beyond the budget of a person living on a pension.
We've tried prawns, and they work, in that he'll wolf them down before setting off 'places to be, people to see' on his rounds - but Science Diet is afforded nothing more than a disdainful whisker twitch. Of course he comes in at night, trailing love and self-satisfaction, but not always under his own steam. I'm afraid to have to report that there have been many occasions, far too many, when we've answered the door to find him in the arms of one of his admirers, cradled like a baby, his pure white tummy on brazen display, his bearer telling us that he's been with her, but she's concerned that he'll miss his bed-time.
I'm not complaining. He's the entree to a different world. I'm invited in to front rooms sporting ficus benjaminas and Percy Grainger LPs to bring him home - 'he's limping, and I didn't want him to walk home oh his own' - so I carry the little horror all of fifty yards to his own door, running the gauntlet of front garden concern while he receives best wishes and - oh, gentle reader, I shoot ye not - and kisses.
His visits to the vet, in a cat box strapped to the rack of the Brompton are like a kind of Royal Progress - it's only a matter of time before the palm fronds put in an appearance. Bulletins are devoured and transmitted and sent back via notes put through the door.....ladies, what can I tell you, the little sucker can't read.
I've come to the conclusion that I'm just one his admirers. He'll lie on the bed and I'll stroke that tummy, but, in my heart of hearts, I know what's happening. In 'Thom, The Movie', my name will be one of a dozen and more below the title. It's humbling to find oneself as one of the supporting cast in the tale of a cat, but sometimes you just have to take your appointed role in history and be glad of it. When he shuffles off this mortal coil I'll miss him terribly, but, then again, I won't be throwing small (or not so small) items of underwear on to his grave. I'll just cherish my place in the legend, passed from garden gate to garden gate, the legend that was Thom, Ladies Cat Extraordinaire......
One moves in to a district hoping to make friends, but knowing that the chances of sharing interests with one's neighbours are medium to slim. So it is with Kirkstall Gardens, a quiet road of semi-detached houses blessed by a green, the happy result of history and a wonky street grid. When it snows the taxi driver offers Susie a lift to the station. When the nervous woman at no.-- reports a stranger to the police, the young constable does a house-to-house confident in the knowledge that turning down offers of tea and cake won't cause offence. When the young woman at no -- practices her fire-spinning act in the street we're full of admiration. Controversy comes by rarely - letters to the Council when someone organises a children's party on the green. We're not a sociable street. We don't gather for coffee mornings or bring and buy sales. We say hello in the street, or if we meet in Waitrose, but that's about it......
There is but one of us who socialises furiously. A 3.45 kilo bundle of simpering, womanising fur, sporting the sweetest face and a long fluffy tail. Butter wouldn't melt in his mouth, but that doesn't stop half a dozen members of his extended harem serving him slices of chicken or those little tubs of Sheba that no cat with an ounce of self-respect would look at. He's to be seen, waiting on a front step, not just on this street, but on New Park Road, or even the flats beyond our back garden, waiting, secure in the knowledge that the door will open and a woman of a certain age (certainly over 65) will offer him delights that one would think beyond the budget of a person living on a pension.
We've tried prawns, and they work, in that he'll wolf them down before setting off 'places to be, people to see' on his rounds - but Science Diet is afforded nothing more than a disdainful whisker twitch. Of course he comes in at night, trailing love and self-satisfaction, but not always under his own steam. I'm afraid to have to report that there have been many occasions, far too many, when we've answered the door to find him in the arms of one of his admirers, cradled like a baby, his pure white tummy on brazen display, his bearer telling us that he's been with her, but she's concerned that he'll miss his bed-time.
I'm not complaining. He's the entree to a different world. I'm invited in to front rooms sporting ficus benjaminas and Percy Grainger LPs to bring him home - 'he's limping, and I didn't want him to walk home oh his own' - so I carry the little horror all of fifty yards to his own door, running the gauntlet of front garden concern while he receives best wishes and - oh, gentle reader, I shoot ye not - and kisses.
His visits to the vet, in a cat box strapped to the rack of the Brompton are like a kind of Royal Progress - it's only a matter of time before the palm fronds put in an appearance. Bulletins are devoured and transmitted and sent back via notes put through the door.....ladies, what can I tell you, the little sucker can't read.
I've come to the conclusion that I'm just one his admirers. He'll lie on the bed and I'll stroke that tummy, but, in my heart of hearts, I know what's happening. In 'Thom, The Movie', my name will be one of a dozen and more below the title. It's humbling to find oneself as one of the supporting cast in the tale of a cat, but sometimes you just have to take your appointed role in history and be glad of it. When he shuffles off this mortal coil I'll miss him terribly, but, then again, I won't be throwing small (or not so small) items of underwear on to his grave. I'll just cherish my place in the legend, passed from garden gate to garden gate, the legend that was Thom, Ladies Cat Extraordinaire......
