I have a ghost, no other way to explain it. A nice little grey-haired granny and her little Corgi dog by her side. She sits in a rocker knitting most of the time, in my sun-room, or hers, her little companion at her feet. All well and good, there’s plenty of room. But as the sun goes down the two walk the halls, creaking boards underfoot, and peek in to the lounge-room, probably wondering what I’m doing there.
Again, all well and good, but now the cat decides to play with the dog, each and every night, paws pounding and skidding across the wood floor, up and down, up and down. Again, all well and good. But after awhile the cat gets freaked, a sudden change of heart perhaps, and meows incessantly until I rescue him from the hallway.
Here he is flat against the ground up against the wall, eyes black as tar. With my presence he has the courage to race out of the hall into the lounge-room in a blur, and if cats could sigh, that’s what he does next. Lord, I am a saviour, alas, on second thought, a slave at best.
The cat often sleeps in the sun-room, or used to. Now he whines until I get up and go to him at the sun-room door. He looks up pleading for me to turn the light on and placate his fears. I do and go in first, just to be sure, and then he hesitantly walks to my side, sniffing and checking out the room earnestly. Then, after all seems fine, he hops up on the bed and goes to sleep. If nothing else I am consistent, a slave worth my salt.
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