Today I witnessed the first exception to great rule of family. My great father yelled at me! I was quite shocked. It happened in the evening, at eleven. The day started out pretty uneventfully, went according to plan, and was even almost delightful.
I woke up at 8 am with the alarm. The alarm’s name is Ringo. He’s 10 years old; his breed is unknown, as I bought it from an old lady by the central entrance of the Exhibition Centre for practically nothing. Ringo looks a lot like a Siberian cat, but I can’t tell for sure that he’s purebred. He has oval eyes, a short and powerful neck, and weighs 8 kg. If I could believe the encyclopaedia, he would definitely fit the description of a Siberian cat. Throughout the first year of his life, Ringo discovered the world and thought about which rules he would need to establish so that he could live comfortably. By the second year, he figured it all out and came to the conclusion that one of the rules was that the owner should get up at 8 am so that his majesty could eat breakfast at 8:05 am. That was convenient for him. And for the next 9 years, this rule has never been broken. If for some reason I need to get up earlier, Ringo sees that as a terrible obstruction of his schedule. He won’t even go near his bowl full of delicious cat food until the time has come for his breakfast arrives.
First he wakes me up tactfully, meowing gently next to my pillow. However, if that doesn’t bring the desired results, he’ll pretty much lose it and start running all over the place till he stops point blank by my bladder and jumps on it at full force. Old Ringo knows anatomy fairly well, if not better than a doctor, so that I have to run to the bathroom, and as it so happens, his cat food is right next to that spot.
Today, he didn’t need to go to that extreme. I woke up at the first sound of a meow, carefully removed my hand from Katrina’s neck and lifted my legs off of the bed Ringo purred approvingly, shook his furry tail vigorously, lazily made his way to his bowl, not even looking to make sure that I was behind him. He knew, the little sucker, that I had no choice.
I have millions of bowls, but on the kitchen floor there are exactly six: five for food and one big one for water. By 8 am, the males are usually hanging out there: the five-year-old grey with a blue tint American, Buddy, that puts on aristocratic airs; the two-year old abandoned cat that answers to the name of Visor and has smooth, pitch black fur and green eyes. By his looks, he definitely seems to be a purebred, but for some reason he was discarded on the street by his owners. His glossy fur makes me think of a Bombay breed and the colour of his eyes could Possibly make him a Bengalese cat, but if we go by his place of birth and upbringing, he is definitely a Russian cat. How could he not have pleased his owners, as good-looking as he is?
There are two chicks: the mom and her daughter. They like to sleep in a bit longer until they hear the sweet sounds of the can of cat food opening. Well, what are you looking at? Yes, I have five cats and plan to get more.
While I was getting the cats’ breakfast ready, sleepy Katrina dragged herself from the bedroom. Dishevelled and wrapped in a terry-cloth robe, she looked even prettier than last night, when we met.
-- What is that? – She asked with alarm and woke up instantly. And she hasn’t even seen my girls yet! As a matter of fact, it’s a fairly typical reaction.
-- Cats – I replied bluntly, pouring 5 litters of fresh water in the bowl.
-- I thought you only had one... There was only one yesterday? Unless I drank myself silly and don’t remember anything.
In her voice there was a definite hint of panic. Katrina is a real nice girl. She doesn’t drink or smoke, and just thinking that the romantic glass of wine that I offered her last night could have turned the whole evening into a disgusting drunk fest with a man she barely knew was unbearable for her.
I had to calm her down, so I explained that last night she really did only see Ringo, taking upon himself the obligations of the responsible tenant. The rest of the guys never come out to greet guests. They hide as far as possible and only crawl out when they can no longer control their curiosity. They probably all snuck out at night and came to the bedroom to check out who I brought home this time, but Katy could not see them in the dark of course. And as we all know, cats move about completely silently.
-- So you have three cats? She asked again with a tone that eluded respect.
-- Actually, five, -- I confessed. – Just don’t worry. It’s not hazardous to your health.
-- What for? – She asked.
The question was reasonable, but I didn’t feel like answering it. The explanation would be much too long, and I was not in the mood for an endless conversation. I had a hard day ahead of me, or should I say a hard afternoon. In the morning I had to talk to my old lady so I had to save my energy. So, I limited myself to a short and sweet reply:
-- I love them.
Strangely enough, this answer seemed to do the job because Katy immediately calmed down and headed for the bathroom.
I met this wonderful girl last night during the taping of a clip for the popular band, “Night Knights.” Katy came there with her group of photojournalists to report for one of the TV channels and interview the band’s producer, Boris Byezryadina. I came because I had nothing else to do. Boris Byezryadina and his wife, Svyetka are long time friends. Seventy percent of the band’s repertoire consists of songs that I wrote for them. I had a free evening, so I figured I’d go see the taping. I always wanted to see how the directors transfer my music into a video clip. As a rule, directors never hear a song the way I hear it. If anybody would let me do a video clip, the songs would be completely different. But I am not a director, let alone a bonfire composer. I am merely a police officer. One with a good music education at that, but...
