Friday, July 18, 2014

Where we're going we don't need DeLoreans

Friday, July 18, 2014
CooperTom and his DeLoreanSitting on a deck chair in my parents’ garden at the weekend, a cat leisurely idled past with its snooty nose in the air, and it abruptly dawned on me that this is the same cat that has lived next door for the last twenty five years or so.

The same cat that beckoned me over to it when I was nine years old with its you-can’t-walk-by-without-stroking-me, butter-wouldn’t-melt, wouldn’t hurt-a-fly eyes… and then proceeded to lash out with its extended, razor-sharp claws when I succumbed.
 
Aside from no longer being a kitten and having somehow much wiser, knowing eyes, it hadn’t changed an iota; identical black and white stripes in the same proportions and patterns, and the same self-righteous demeanour.

Twenty five years of life experience flashed before me in that instant. In particular I couldn’t help dwelling on all the relatives, friends and pet dogs I’d lost in that time, and yet here was this bullet-proof furball still going about the crucial business of terrorising starlings and generally swaggering around like it owned the world.

Had I fallen into a worm hole and travelled back in time?, or was the moggy taking a giant leap for cat-kind into the future from my childhood? You could answer, “Shut the hell up you idiot. Cats live a long time, deal with it”, and many would, but I can’t shake the bizarre sensation of unreality and foreboding.

So that was my weekend. Perhaps the question I should be asking is, when did I become Karl Pilkington?

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