Viva Brighton Issue #85 March 2020

COLUMN
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John Helmer
Dusty answer
It’s midnight, and liveliness stirs, together with a
growling hunger. But just as I am poised by the
exit assaying the night air for traces of fox, I hear
a key in the door.
After some fumbling and crashing about, the
oldest of my humans stumbles into the kitchen,
greeting me with the two harsh monosyllables
that seem to have become his new name for
me: a pair of ugly barks, evidently learned from
the dogs (stupid creatures) issued in a tone that
contrasts strongly with the soft and pleasing
sounds made by the younger, female members of
the family when speaking to me. When stroking
me. Because they love me. The look in his watery
old eyes speaks not of such fondness.
Throwing his backpack down on the kitchen
table, the half-cut gerontion hastily divests
himself of his coat and heads unsteadily for the
small room where I
sometimes drink.
My attempts to
impede his progress
by rubbing myself
lovingly against his
trouser-leg meet
with a sidestep
surprisingly
deft in one so
evidently drunk
but – let’s face
it – this has
become a familiar
dance.
He pauses before
disappearing
through the
door, thinking of... who knows what passes
through that dull, enormous head. His blue
eyes are empty. Perhaps he has forgotten his
spectacles, his phone – his name? Staring up at
him, willing him to focus, I speak plaintively of
my hunger for treats. At the sound of my cries,
he seems to snap back to life. He repeats my new
name with extra vehemence and closes the door.
I don’t know how he manages to show, after all
this time, not the least trace of the love I have
laboured so tirelessly to inspire in him. There
have been such efforts. I have selflessly gifted the
most rare and effulgent of my essences, liberally
spraying them into every piece of luggage he
owns while packing for business trips, so that
he will not forget me while away. I seek out the
special favourite places in the house where he
likes to sit, and regurgitate hair-balls for him to
find there. I scarify each new piece of flat-pack
furniture artistically, with my own claws. What
more can I do?
And yet, among the occupants of this crowded
and bustling family home, who are all so
appreciative of my sinuous grace, attractive fur
and admittedly slightly rough-edged play (which
among us can truly say they have never shed
the blood of their humans?) he alone somehow
doesn’t seem to get it.
The door of the small room opens and he
emerges, the wine-smell now minted with
toothpaste. As he heads for the stairs he stoops
to confer a nugatory, insincere caress, for which
there is no possible response but the one I give it.
Recoiling, barking once again my new name, he
shows angry eyes.
I have to face the fact. He just doesn’t care.
Illustration by Chris Riddell
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