It’s always a thrill to get fan mail. Once I sort through the advertisements for feline rejuvenation, electoral dysfunction and cheap cathouse loan offers there’s usually not much left in my inbox, but I hit gold this morning.
A warm message of good cheer from a chap named Chester.
At first glance, Chester looked like any other tuxedo cat. Smart, suave and sassy in black and white. However there’s more to Chester than meets the eye.
We have a similar early background, both of us left to fend for ourselves in a harsh, human world at an impressionable age. Both of us battling hardship before finally making the decision to adopt a woman to feed us.
But that’s where the similarity ends.
I’m a city cat, born and bred within earshot of the trams rattling through the metropolis, in the hub of the frightening freeways and the incessant honking of taxi cabs.
Chester was born in a barn.
The woman who feeds Chester suspects his parentage to contain a touch of the feral and that could be true for all we know. Out there in the wild bush anything can happen. In any case, Chester has a hankering for the great outdoors and, when he’s not hunting in the local Air Force base, spends his time on the roof. (It’s been a while since I’ve sunned myself on the roof tiles. The possums can take the high ground for all I care).
Chester likes Fussy Cat too, just like me. If you can’t get salmon, I say, go for the minced kangaroo chopped with lambs fry and ox heart.
It all goes to prove that, beneath the fur, Chester and I are brothers.
High Paw to you, Chester!