Cats seem to have been born for pleasure. They will find the softest blanket, the warmest patch of sun. They will turn their nose up at any food not up to their standards, they'd rather go hungry than not thoroughly enjoy eating. Everything put on earth has been placed here for their entertainment- lizards, birds, a leaf blown by the wind. They are hedonists of the first order.
This picture is Sergeant Catman sleeping on the sofa in my bedroom, the one that entices me most days with its late afternoon sun; but I, the good writer with a heavy sack of Protestant work ethic, go back to the computer, and Sgt. Catman takes my place, or his place which I'm sure is the way that he sees it.
As readers will know we have a problem regarding Sgt. Catman. He came to our home as a boy and the vets turned him into a girl, or rather recognised that he had been one all along and made us aware of the fact. Still I see him as a boy and call him Sgt. Catman as I've become used to that. I can't quite accept the truth just yet.
The other night my daughter, one of the Giant Teenagers who are currently home for a week long holiday, said that I must stop it, that I'm committing some sort of animal abuse. I considered her point and thought I might come with an alternative name, one that might grow on me to pull me to the realisation that my cat is a girl. Viola popped into my head.
My daughter laughed. I asked her why and she reminded me of 12th Night and the cross dressing Viola. I'd forgotten about it, at least consciously, but immediately realised the appropriateness.
So now my cat has a new name- Sgt. Viola Catman.