THERE are certain things that animals, with their superior senses, know for definite; Mr Tommy Fluffipants knows for definite that I can get dressed in the mornings much more easily and quickly if he helps.
At crack of dawn (about 8 o’clock) I emerge from the bedroom clutching an armful of clothes to put on before giving Mr Fluffipants his breakfast.
Having been eight hours without food obviously the poor creature is suffering from advanced malnutrition, or so he tells me.
He greets me with a lengthy account of his plight, delivered in pathetic squeaks. He winds himself around my legs and rears up to grasp my thighs in his soft little paws as I stagger to the sofa to sit down and dress. He jumps on the sofa and wraps his arms round my shoulders as I attempt to get my t-shirt over my head and not his.
Having supervised that task he grabs my trousers and escorts my legs as far down the leg of the trouser as possible. Now the trainers – he assists me with tying the laces by pouncing on them and killing them – it’s a hard job for a cat, but he knows that I won’t be able to tie them on my own.
Now, at last, it’s breakfast time, and I follow his fluffy little bottom into the kitchen, where he jumps on ‘his’ table and commences his uniquely squeaked version of ‘Grace Before Meals’ as I put his plate before him.
He tucks in, and I am immediately forgotten!
