Chocolate cat is lying flat out under the piano duet stool next to the radiator, on the bespoke camping–on–hard–ground 5” thick foam thing I made and covered with dark blue fleece sporting little red flowers. He is snoring his head off. Sometimes he whimpers in a slow crescendo of panic, louder and more scared. I have to wake him and remind him It’s OK sweetheart, it’s only a nightmare. You’re safe with me now. No more nasty people.
He had a terrible childhood. It was a year before he stopped flinching every time I reached to stroke him. Even now he will misunderstand occasionally when I put my hand out, and wallop me. And with five razors on each paw, that’s some wallop, usually a stripey dripping red one. (I’ve got better at seeing it coming: the ear–flattening, the dilated pupil, the sudden halt in purring.) Usually happens when I'm half asleep sitting on the loo and not paying attention.
I first spotted him from the kitchen window (up in Scotland at the time) grabbing a crust of bread and tearing off down the garden with it. That is a starving cat, I thought. Someone suggested I put a postcard in the local shop window at the time. No, I said. Bad idea. Very bad idea. I do not want some nutter in this village who’s nasty to cats coming round here and demanding him back, with menaces. That cat ran away for a reason, or was dumped. Either way, he’s stopping with me. Not my first stray, you’ve guessed.
So I called him Chocolate, as in 85% cocoa solids, as in looks black until you see the sun on his rich, incredibly thick, shiny–as–mink silky coat (Burmese I believe) then the gorgeous brown glows at you. It’s almost a phenomenon of transparency, the black and the brown. You can’t see which is which. It’s all both. Burmese owners call it sable. And like chocolate, he induces a healthy dollop of endorphins. Long may he live. Apparently they do, Burmese cats. He’s already got scattered hairs and beard turning grey, quite the elderly gentleman.
Have happy dreams, Chocolate.
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