Pagan
Well-Known Member
September 2016, I´d spent most of that year in Spain, in a rented casita on the outskirts of Orgiva, before moving to a rented house high up the valley of the rio Chico. Casa Regadera (Watering-Can House) stood in the trees, and proved an idyllic spot from which to observe the world from a safe distance.
Or so I thought.
Relaxing on the balcony on the first day, watching the sun rise above the eastern rim of the canyon, the silence was suddenly pierced by the sounds of an indignation so emphatic as to freeze the morning´s calm, and stiffen my sinews.
Whatever it was, it was coming up the track.
It soon became apparent that this massive dissatisfaction was bellowing from the tiny frame of a black and white kitten, newly ejected from the car of someone who had at least one feline soul too many.
Finding herself marooned in the Wild Wood, she made unerringly for my balcony, accepted my humble offering of food, fixed me with a look which made it apparent I´d just signed a contract, and within a couple of days took possession of the house, and established a relationship where I feed her belly, and she feeds my soul.
I christened her ¨Diva¨ because nothing was ever quite enough, but her faintest signs of gratitude had me fawning like an eejit.
From the first she was capable of extreme verbal abuse, with a repertoire ranging from Karlheinz Stockhausen to the Mormon Tabernacle Choir, and I soon learned my place in the Divine Order of Things.
She´s five now, and reads me like a book, while remaining her enigmatic self.
On a sunny morning she likes to come down the garden and share my mood.
Sometimes we sit and think, and sometimes we just sit.
Or so I thought.
Relaxing on the balcony on the first day, watching the sun rise above the eastern rim of the canyon, the silence was suddenly pierced by the sounds of an indignation so emphatic as to freeze the morning´s calm, and stiffen my sinews.
Whatever it was, it was coming up the track.
It soon became apparent that this massive dissatisfaction was bellowing from the tiny frame of a black and white kitten, newly ejected from the car of someone who had at least one feline soul too many.
Finding herself marooned in the Wild Wood, she made unerringly for my balcony, accepted my humble offering of food, fixed me with a look which made it apparent I´d just signed a contract, and within a couple of days took possession of the house, and established a relationship where I feed her belly, and she feeds my soul.
I christened her ¨Diva¨ because nothing was ever quite enough, but her faintest signs of gratitude had me fawning like an eejit.
From the first she was capable of extreme verbal abuse, with a repertoire ranging from Karlheinz Stockhausen to the Mormon Tabernacle Choir, and I soon learned my place in the Divine Order of Things.
She´s five now, and reads me like a book, while remaining her enigmatic self.
On a sunny morning she likes to come down the garden and share my mood.
Sometimes we sit and think, and sometimes we just sit.
