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The weather is getting colder in New Zealand and Ollie is in bothering mode. He won't leave me alone. He looks at me in a certain manner - rather like the way he contemplates small rodents and birds. There is such intensity in his look that I swear that if I was smaller he'd try and eat me - a nonsensical fancy, I know! It's all to do with the cold, of course. He wants to sit on me.
When I sit down he sometimes thunders across the room and bounces on my stomach, using it as a trampoline. There are other approaches - like leaping down on me from the high top of the chair or sneaking in from the side. There is also the climing down from the top of the chair approach. This is a particularly painful and delicate operation. On arrival on my stomach he stretches himself up towards my face and rests a paw on each shoulder. His face is within whisker-tickling distance of my mouth. He flattens himself out nicely and goes to sleep.
I am uncomfortable. A heavy cat sitting on my stomach is not my idea of heaven - but I have a solution. Ollie hates paper crackling. I reach for the newspaper and crackle it open on page three. A feeling of delight washes over me. It's not often I get a chance to annoy Ollie. The cat doesn't move a centimetre but the eyes flick wide open and the ears flatten. I have his attention. I think the noise must somehow set his teeth on edge. I crackle merrily on to page ten. The dampers have gone on on the purr machine. I titter and steam on to page 28, crackle, crackle crackle. It's really getting to him - his mouth is partly open and he is showing more of the two front fangs that normally hang down over his bottom lip in a dracula fashion. But the day is cold, the first really cold day we've had. Ollie hunkers down. I sigh and drop the paper. It's no use - that cat is in for the long haul.
A couple of days later we go out to dinner at a local winery. The Beef Wellington is delicious and so is the bottle of red plonk we use to wash it down. On arrival home I collapse into a chair, pleasantly mellow.
Ollie hits me from the top of the chair with the strength of a tornado. He bounces once on my tum. My over-taxed stomach gives up the ghost. I am just able to throw down some newspaper before I barf on the floor. I close my eyes and sink back in the chair. I feel terrible. There is a loud spluttering noise from John. "That cat, he's got a pre-digested dinner," John choked.
I lifted half an eyelid. Ollie was tucking into the Beef Wellington. He'd decided that if he couldn't eat me this was the next best thing.
Editor's note:
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