Fun Friday – Cats and other monsters

Our neighbor used to have a cat named George.
He was a cat cat, if you know what I mean. Standoffish, arrogant, independent — and shmoozy when the mood struck him.
George ignored us for the better part of 6 years. He’d walk past the front door, speeding up as if we would kick him as he went by. Stroke him? What, are you nuts?
He was a big ginger monster. I’ve seen him beat up all the other cats, gangs of them, and watched him corner a fox that was three times the size of him — and send the creature packing with an almighty limp and a torn up tail.
One Christmas Eve, it was raining hard, I came up the driveway and there was George, in the bushes, soaked to the bone. He probably got drenched by a passing car. It was cold and I knew Louise, his owner, was away over Christmas. A friend was feeding George outside.
So there was soggy moggy and I felt sorry for him, so I picked him up and took him indoors where we shared a towel.
Afterward he rolled up on the armchair next to the heater and dried out.
Little did I know that my innocent rescue mission had just cost me my spot on the armchair. Forever.
The next day, there was an almighty BUMP on the front door. Perplexed, we opened the door — with George stuck on it. He’d sunk his claws into the wood, and as the door swung open (inward), he considered this an invitation, dropped off and proceeded to claim the armchair.
We laughed.
This became an almost daily ritual.
George and I had epic battles over that armchair. If I was in it, George would climb up, squeeze in between me and the armrest…and push. He braced his legs on the armrest and there would be constant pressure against my bum as he tried to get me out of it.
If I got up for any reason, coffee, bathroom, whatever…by the time I get back he’d be stretched out widthwise in a way that made it impossible to sit down, with a triumphant look on his face.
If I sat in it, usually he would sit in front of me, trying to stare me out of it. When that didn’t work, he’d turn his head to look at Paul, with an expression of “She’s in my chair. Do something.”
Yep, it was his armchair.
I told Louise where he hangs out and she was very embarrassed. I told her we really don’t mind, I just wanted her to know where he is, so she doesn’t get worried. Over time, we used to be the ones who fed him when she wasn’t there. Seeing as he practically lived with us anyway, it was a sensible solution.
Then, one day, we had liver for dinner.
Oh my.
George, sniffing around, tried a little bit — and an addiction was started. He ate no less than three large pieces of liver, wanting more. Next time Paul came in with liver, George followed him from the car park and sat in front of the cooker until it was ready and he could have his share.
Raw liver was no good. It had to be cooked just right, and there had to be onions with it.
From that time on, whenever the butcher asked how much liver he wanted, Paul would answer “Enough for two adults and a cat.”
This went on for several years, but a few years ago, he started to get very thin, very quickly.
Louise took him to the vet and he was put on meds. George improved a little, but he wasn’t all that perky anymore. There were days when he just came in, climbed on his armchair and slept the entire day. He was old, but he’d been full of beans before he got sick. Now he was just getting weaker and weaker. Nothing helped.
I knew something was really wrong when he just lay on my lap, in his beloved armchair, without trying to get me out of it.
George went to cat heaven that year, just before Christmas. It was probably best, because Louise was moving a few months later. George had been born right there, and spent all his life in the massive communal garden surrounding the apartments. It seemed fitting to lay him to rest there, too.
There will never be another George, and I miss him, but even now, a few years later, he still has the power to make me laugh, remembering some of the stuff he got up to.
How could I ever forget the cat who sat on the armrest, hiccupping, looking at the wall as if to say “It’s not me.”
I didn’t even know they could hiccup!
We have many great memories of him, and every time we have liver…we think of George, and how he used to wait impatiently for it to come out of the frying pan so he could eat it.
He was a great character, and I’m glad he adopted our armchair.

Silke grew up in Germany and is used to things going bump in the night — and it wasn’t always the acrophobic cat, or someone hitting their head on a low beam on the ceiling.
She writes paranormal romance, usually at night, and blames Anne Stuart to this day for all her ambitions and strange stories, after reading one of her books.
These days the only thing going bump at “oh-dark-thirty” is her — usually when she smacks into the sofa while creeping to the kitchen for another cup of coffee.

Silke likes to hear from her readers.
Feel free to contact her via her blog at http://www.evilauthor.com, follow her on Twitter, look her up on Goodreads or become a friend on Facebook and G+.

Her books Howl and Smitten are available at all major ebook retailers.