I’m watching TV. Veronica is sitting beside me, curled up like a stripy little snail shell. I hear a gurgle and look up to see Archie licking his butt.
Slurp it clean, buddy.
Veronica’s tail is floppy. When I try to give her a scratch, she meows. It’s not angry, just a meow, so it takes me a while to realise.
On Sunday afternoon we heard a scrabbling thump. We didn’t see anything, though Liam found Ronnie hiding under his desk later. She must have fallen off the stairs, as we knew she would every time she scratched her chin and shoulders on the precarious edge.
But how the tail? Cats are supposed to land on their feet. Had she landed with her tail on the step? The thought makes me chuckle, mainly because she looks so very pathetic with her tail dragging along the floor.
She yowls to go out, she yowls to come in. But of course, she won’t, I have to chase her—dinner in hand.
She shoots under the chair and yowls at me, as if challenging me to find her beneath the transparent fabric. I poke her with my toe and she scrambles out, peering longingly at the outer wall.
I scoop her up in one hand and plop her inside. She forgets the outside world when she smells our dinner.
This is based off the style of Eric Dondo in his book ‘Snail’. Titled micro-fictional anecdotes about every day life meant to amuse. If my cats are in anyway more entertaining, I may add more!