Onesentence

If I had to describe my life in one sentence, just one, that sentence would probably be : My cat's on antidepressants.

He's an adorable cat though (I've repeated this story many a time, so those lucky few that have been fortunate enough to have heard a live version of this tale will be forgiven for moving on to the rest of this fabulously exciting post). He came into my parents' lives last September, two days after I had left for University (pain of separation and all that. *smug grin at younger still-living-at-home brother*) from an Emirates air hostess who had found him wandering the streets and proceeded to spend 45 minutes on a Bur Dubai pavement deep in conversation with him ("The languages spoken by the cabin crew today are English, Arabic, French, Hindi and Feline").

After putting up posters in several of the buildings in the area in vain, she contacted Feline Friends who promptly put her on to us. We had been looking for a cat for about two weeks at this point, but every one we saw needed a garden unless we were prepared to let our rather nice living room fall to pieces (we live in a flat). A British Shorthair (he resembles them the most) with a crushed skull (to be honest we can't tell if it's impaired his mental health in any way), most teeth broken and short stubby legs made up the newest addition to the family. He was taken to the vet for appropriate vaccinations and castrations and then christened Randolph (which always struck me as a dog's name). However, he decided to relieve himself in the corridor on his first night with us, and the family decided 'Randolph' was a bit too pretentious for this street cat.
A few days later the name 'Bouzov' was settled upon (Bouzov ofcourse being a tiny place in Czech famous for it's rather pointless castle that while being quite lovely on the inside seemed to have served no real purpose).

When I first met him about 3 months later at four in the morning he looked at me with some wonder before treating me as though we'd known each other all our lives. The cat treats and toy I had immediately unpacked for him may have had something to do with it. Over the next few days I noticed something, infact it was hard to miss. Booze (as I affectionately call him) lorded over the house. The much bandied about quote, or fact and veritable truism demonstrates this : Thousands of years ago cats were worshipped as Gods. Cats have never forgotten this. Wherever he went was his kingdom. Dad's wingchair where he has sat, to the exclusion of all others, every morning reading the paper and drinking his tea was claimed by our cat, and now my rather large dad shares it with him. Despite the cat hair. Ditto for the white cushions on a dining table chair. Bedroom doors are left open at night should he wish to grace one with his presence. His litter tray is in my bathroom. His mat is my baby blanket. He spends his evenings on the kitchen table, on my blanket, pillow under his head watching the world go by (much of our family activity takes place in the kitchen).

Recently, as of this summer, he has taken to whining outside my bedroom door at 7am (after waking my parents up at 4 and despite my many sermons on how I am not an early riser) until someone opens it (i keep my door closed since the bathroom is right opposite my door, and since it has his litter tray in it, the door is permanently open. So why don't I keep it open? What Lies Beneath, It and all that). After someone opens it, he rushes in, whines until I move up, then jumps in next to me, head on pillow, whines until I put the blanket on him and proceeds to hold court from there until 5.

Yet despite all this, Booze has a delicate medical condition. Condition atleast. He stresses himself out. A lot. If he naps and awakes to an empty room he'll start his whining until someone makes their presence known to him, if he feels guests have stayed too long he'll start getting restless and make it quite clear he doesn't approve, I leave without informing him of my flight number and ETD atleast a week in advance he'll start crying outside my room and stare at the lifts, probably in a 'Oh woe is me' way. Infact, sometimes it seems that if he has no reason to complain and the family has been behaving well he'll sit for hours staring at a wall or table with a mournful look on his face contemplating his life. Like many a male I know, I imagine he had pictured himself sunning by a pool or something surrounded by pussy. He also used to have a habit of standing infront of closed doors and cupboards miaowing away until they were opened, although after getting 'accidentally' locked in one his curiousity seems to have abated somewhat.

And we love him. We hug, kiss and cuddle this cat. We go at all hours to shops for his favourite tinned food if it's run out, and apologise profusely for the delay.

So yes, this is why that sentence sums up my life. It's perfect. It's so inherently derailed and crazy (my life. the sentence seems grammatically sound) . Artificial substances play such a part in it. And at 19 years old, my one goal in life at the moment is to own a lot of cats. And shoes.

But mainly cats.