So I’m in love. Completely. And it’s not reciprocated. Or at least only on some level. When I open the drawer and get out a fork to dish out his food. That’s when he loves me. That’s when I’m his best friend. That’s when he rubs himself lovingly between my ankles.
Logan.
I let him out for the first time the other day. I wanted to keep him inside for as long as I could for several reasons: he hadn’t been neutered yet and was still only a kitten. Not to mention I didn’t actually own the garden despite living on the ground floor. And in all honesty, I didn’t want him to turn all tom cat and forget about me. But after getting him neutered, I had a change of heart.
I remember opening the window for him to go out for the first time, tentative little paw steps until he’d touched one down on the other side, the rest of the paws followed. He stood up on his back legs and sniffed in the air. He looked back at me, waiting for reassurance. He went a little further up some steps, then turned back again, looking right at me.
It’s okay little one. Off you go. Just don’t forget me when you’re out doing what cats do.
He’d gone further still, all the way to the top and then – out of sight.
I admit, panic swelled within me, I let out a little sob to ease the pressure. That was it. He was gone. I called out his name and his little head poked around the corner. It was then I knew he’d be alright.
See, Logan is smart. He knows no matter what he does outside, he’ll always have a nice warm bed to come back to at night. There will always be someone to stroke his fur. There will always be someone to play fetch with him.
And he knows there will always be a cup of tea waiting for him on the table.
Logan is definitely my cat.
