We have a cat. Or rather a cat has us. She is small, very pale tabby with a mutant tail and she mews loudly. A lot. Especially in the mornings. She joined us when we lived in Singapore and spent her very earliest days living in a Singapore drain before she adopted a friend of a friend and then landed up with us.
So she’s a well travelled beast, but these days she hunts vermin in the Vicarage garden (of which more at a later date) and hunts for the warmest place to recline in the Vicarage. As you know, the latter is a bit of a challenge. In summer you might find her scanning the children on their way to school from the vantage point of our gatepost. Or she might be lying on the carpet in my bedroom, soaking up the sunshine from the south facing windows.
In winter however she cuddles up to the fire, or sits upon the lap of the poor (rather cat allergic) Vicar’s Apprentice. Sometimes we find her lurking in the bathroom, but only when the underfloor heating is on. She is a good indicator of where the temperature is bearable. For that reason, to date I have never once seen her in the Vicar’s study.
Grumpy Grandpa has written a few poems on the subject of cats. This one is a good summary of VC’s attitude to life:
A hamster has his little wheel, a gerbil can be fun,A guinea pig is cuddly, though you have to clean his run,A dog’s a good companion, and will make you smile and laugh.But a dog will have a master, a cat, she just has staff.
There’s a dead mouse in the corner, and lots of tiny hairs.A hairball on the carpet, and some feathers on the stairs.She won’t do what you tell her, she smells a little too,A kitten makes you love her, then she takes charge of you.
The Vicar's Wife 