The day I realized that all cats are bastards, yes, even my favourite fuzzball, was a cold fall day.
I had always suspected that it was true; but I knew for certain then: a fast-flying low-orbit swallow made a mad pass across the yard. Out of nowhere - I mean nowhere - my cat D-Man pounced from twenty feet away. Arms outstretched, his suddenly massive paws spiked the bird into the ground.
The very next moment, D-Man was on top of the bird. With a loud crunch, D-Man ended that swallow's existence. Crunch. Crunch. Five seconds is all it took; all that remained of that bird was wings.
This was not my first cat; our previous family cat, Millie, gave birth to a litter of kittens. On my bed - a bunk bed. Those kittens turned out to be just as dickish as their mother; within weeks, they destroyed my prize ferns, lacerated my couches, and bent my bamboo.
I was very relieved when they were adopted.
When I was young, a cat turned up at our house. It was a cat previously owned by friends of my parents, who lived thirteen miles away from our little town. Somehow, the fat-headed feline had found his way to my house and adopted it as his residence on the spot. He stayed there most of the winter until he was rehomed with a lovely couple across town.
Cats seem to love me for some reason I don't quite understand. I can no longer wear a wool coat or dark clothes; somehow, in every single neighbourhood, the ONE neighbourhood cat decides that my shoulders would make a lovely perch from which to survey the world.
All cats are bastards.
Photo: Mikhail Vasilyev