I suppose you’re wondering where I go when I vanish for hours on end, leaving only a slightly warm patch on the windows ill and a mysterious scent of cinnamon. Some say I’m napping in the neighbour’s flower bed.Others think I’m chasing squirrels in the park.
Fools.
Dandelion-chasers!
The truth is far stranger: I go to other dimensions.
Yes, really. Last Tuesday, I popped into a particularly peculiar place where Empanadas grew on trees.
Juicy ones, steaming in the sun like pastries of paradise. But they were all vegan, filled with lentils and kale and “jackfruit” (who is Jack and why does he have fruit?), so I gave them amiss. I’m a dignified carnivore, after all.
I did, however, enjoy the bushes, marvellous hedges that reached out little leafy limbs to give the most splendid back rubs and behind-the ear scratches. Imagine that. A hedge that understands you.
Unfortunately, all was not tail-flicksa nd whisker twitches. The sky was smudged with grey,the sea swelled with plastic bottles and biscuit wrappers, and the air was thick and wheezy. Even I struggled to breathe, and I’ve inhaled three dust bunnies and half a spider without issue. Worst of all, the temperature was rising. Try wearing a fur coat all year round and then talk to me about global warming.
Then, ah, then. The two-legs realised this was not Good. They got their act together. They started foodco-ops where nobody fought over the last sardine tin. They threw litter-picking raves (you haven’t lived until you’ve seen someone in. sequins hoovering up crisp packets while doing the worm).
EMPANADAS ON TREES
They abolished the oil companies, turned their roads into rivers of wildflowers, and built splendid gardens with hammocks and shady trees where no one had to work too hard and everyone had time for naps. Unfortunately, all was not tail-flicks and whisker twitches.
They abolished the oil companies, turned their roads into rivers of wildflowers, and built splendid gardens with hammocks and shady trees where no one had to work too hard and everyone had time for naps.
It was, frankly, purrfection. So I came back here. Yes, this dimension. Back to my bowl, my beanbag, and your baffling fondness for vacuuming.
Now, when I meow, not the “feed me” meow, but the one that sounds like I’ve swallowed a small trumpet, I’m not just making noise. I’m sharing knowledge. Prophecy. Policy. So next time I yowl at your bedroom door at 4 a.m., I’m not just being annoying. I’m trying to awaken you to the urgent need for better-funded public transport. Please try to keep up.