Fur

Mr Perkins was most bothersome today. He miaowed and miaowed at me, but he wouldn’t tell me what he actually wanted.

I watched him eat, I tried to play with him and I even decamped to the sofa at three o’clock so he could sit on my knee and I’d get some peace, even it was uncomfortable twisting round to use my laptop on the cushion beside me. But that wasn’t what he wanted either.

He sat on the table in front of me and nuzzled for a head rub, but bit my arm (gently).

I put him on my knee, but he wasn’t having it beyond a brief head rub. He went back on the table and sat there waiting for me to understand his unfathomable feline fancy.

I had one of my ideas. ‘Miaow.’

He stared at me.

‘Miaow. Miaow miaow miaow miaow.’ I thought I was getting quite good at it.

He stared at me. ‘Mew.’

‘Miaow miaow miaow.’

‘Mew.’

I won’t repeat the whole conversation: it gets a bit samey if you don’t understand cat-ese.

When we finished chatting, he curled up on my knee, and peace was restored.