Pussycats Without the Dolls

While walking home from the bus stop, today, I spotted two cats in front of a couple of the homes, at the other end of my row. These were the same two cats I had seen this morning, on my way to work. They were laying in the same spots. One is white, the other mostly black, with a white underbelly. They seem to spend all their time laying on the driveway in front of the homes at that end of the terraced row. I think the black and white one hangs out in my back garden, from time to time. When there are cars in their favorite spots, they just lay on top of the cars.
What a life! Imagine laying about, doing whatever you want all day. No need to take buses, or work to earn your keep. No wonder cats purr. I have often compared myself to cats, since I was young. The best pet I ever had was my cat, Misty. I can't remember what age I was when I got him, but I know I had him by the time I was eleven. The proof is a Polaroid photo of him, with me, taken with my great aunt, Ann's camera. I am wearing an outfit in that photo that I wore when I was eleven. It would have been the latter half of 1970, or early 1971. I wonder where that photo is now?
Misty was a kitten when he came to live with me. He was silver tabby on the top of his head, on his back, sides and tail. The lower half of his face and body were white, and he had a touch of calico. Most of the time we lived together, he used to come sleep with me. Misty was also good at keeping the mice out of the house, or at least, in hiding so we were never bothered by them. Once in a while, he would kill one. Someday, when I can afford domestic help, I want to get another cat. Comparing myself to cats, I am like a big cat, like a tiger. With me, you can either get the soft fur, or the sharp claws, depending on how you act.
As I walk up to my door, I spot a third cat. This one is long-haired, red tabby with white. He's crouched on the lawn, just past my door. He quietly eyes me as I put my key in the lock. I've seen him in the back garden, as well. So, I have three local cats watching over me. Maybe they are keeping me safe from bad people. My great aunt, Ann used to say, "never trust anyone who doesn't get one well with cats." My evil ex-wife, the Black Queen, didn't like cats. She claimed to be allergic to them. With her, I failed to heed Ann's warning until it was too late. Ann died seventeen years before I met the Black Queen. Misty died eighteen years before I met the Black Queen. So, when I met her, there were no cats to protect me. No aunts either.

Tom's Mum

Tonight, Nando was working late. With M1 moved out, this meant that I was all alone for the evening. While watching a bit of TV, I turned to the telephone to fill the void in my social contact matrix. After calling one person who was unavailable, I called my real Myspace friend, Tom (formerly known as Tom the Injured Cyclist). I used the memory on my new, cordless phone, to retrieve Tom's home number. I pushed the button which causes the device to dial. Hearing the reassuring tones of the automated dialing, I awaited the familiar ringing. As expected, it came...the double tone of the British telephone system. Next, I anticipated Tom's voice answering the phone. Even though his flat is small, sometimes I have to be quite patient. He often finds some way to take ages to get to the phone. Suddenly, a woman's voice answers. It's not the voice of Tom's ex, who I have met. This voice sounds older and very posh. For a moment, I thought I had somehow dialled the wrong number. That can't be, though, as it was automatically dialed. I asked for Tom and the female seemed to recognize the name, although she hesitated suspiciously. She asked who's calling. Who is this?!!! Does Tom have some new girlfriend? She sounded a bit mature for him, though.
I said my name, "it's Joseph." She asked me to repeat it. I do. She seems to struggle. She repeated it back as something different...Jack, John, Jimmy, or something like that. I started to feel frustrated. How hard was it to comprehend "Joseph?" At the end of the day, what difference did it make? She doesn't live there, just put me through to Tom. If I hadn't been sick, I might have thought to just agree with whatever she said, so she'd put me through. Somehow, I managed to get her to put me through. I finally heard Tom's voice and the relief flooded over me like a cascading waterfall. "Who the hell was that?" I asked as soon as I had his ear.
"My maid?" He said, playfully. I pressed him for a serious answer. He caved in rather easily. "It's my Mum," he admitted. Over here, saying "Mum" has the same affect as saying "Mom," in America. In other words, his mother. The human who gave him birth. His DNA genesis. Well, half of it. I guess that whatever frustrations I have with Tom, they are ultimately her fault. I was struck by an eerie thought. Might I have alienated her with the whole name thing, before I even had the chance to meet her?
"What is she doing there?" I asked, with sharp curiosity. More to the point, why was she answering the phone? Sadly, I didn't ask the second question. Tom informed me that Mum was there for a visit. Given how small Tom's flat is, I crinkled my nose at the thought of them sharing such close quarters. Then I remembered that when she had gone to bring Tom to the phone, she had said she would try to "find" him. It shouldn't be hard. Look behind the door, dear. I wish my mother would visit me.