Clara has a black and white cat called Tolstoy.
There’s no getting
around it – that’s a very pretentious name.
Actually, I vacillate
between calling Tolstoy Clara’s cat and calling him our cat. You see I have a love/hate relationship with
the cat.
Some days I love his
cute furry face and his little white paws and his crooked white whiskers. And the warmth of his cuddly body asleep on
the sofa. And the way he comes running when I shout “chicken” (though I may
have cried wolf too many times on that one as he seems less enthusiastic these
days).
But other times I find
him irritating. A pointless, stupid
automaton, whose raison d'être is eating.
An expensive luxury running up food bills, and vet bills after getting
into fights. A cat that seemingly does
its business in its own back garden, creating a sticky hazard when I clear up
the autumn leaves. And an apparently
endless generator of black hair around the house that I have to vacuum and wipe
away.
As well as being
generally cute, the cat serves another purpose: there is always
something to talk about, both with one another and with feline loving friends. Dozens of “how’s Tolstoy?” conversations and
hundreds of “how is the boy?” text messages.
Gigabytes of mindless photos of “the cat” and associated Facebook posts.
Tolstoy also keeps us
company at mealtimes.
When chatting in the
kitchen over dinner a few days ago, Tolstoy was sitting patiently by the table as the conversation moved to whether Clara would
look after me in years to come when my Parkinson's symptoms get bad.
“Of course,” she said.
“I’ll always take care of you.”
Clara and I got
married in Italy, in the town hall in Florence, in an intimate ceremony attended
by just a few friends. Despite the presence
of a so-called translator I didn’t understand much of what was going on, though
I gathered the wedding vows were very practical in nature, all about setting up
a house together and so on. But the words
were largely irrelevant as we both knew that what we were really thinking was “for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health….”
“…. As long as I can
always have a cat,” Clara added, flashing a loving smile at the boy waiting
patiently for treats.
I grinned
broadly.
That seemed,
literally, like the deal of a lifetime. I silently thanked my lucky stars for having such a wonderful wife.
“OK. You can always have a
cat,” I confirmed.
