I am no longer quite Metternich or Hillary Clinton. I seem to have become the concierge at a spa where there will be unpleasantness if certain of the guests are served in the dining room at the same time.
Suitably neutered and resplendent from his new schedule of grooming, Torvald is filling the house with a very strong personality. At times, he seems to want something that I cannot provide or even guess, and when it isn’t forthcoming, he pursues me, flings his forepaws around my shin, nips me, and occasionally attempts to use my leg as a scratching post. Then, quite endearingly, he rolls about on the floor and rubs his whiskers against me. It is not easy to get anything done at these times.
Mr. Ferguson is unusually territorial with him, perhaps put off by several initial careening encounters, and when my nerves can stand it they engage in a fascinating form of Cat Kabuki involving slow-motion approaches and retreats through the legs of some furniture fort or another. Last night there was a collision that pulled off Torvald’s breakaway collar, but he really does not seem to bear a grudge. He just sits down complacently and regards the glowering Fergie until I call time on the evening’s encounter.
He has learned to pose splendidly and is now King Of The Printer.
The monitor also fascinates him not a little, especially when I am playing a Maru video complete with audible meows. He spent five minutes trying to find the cat.
He is, in short, a poster child for the Amusing Antics Of The Feline.
Fergie is supercilious and disgusted. “You may be good box office,” he says. “But I have a girl friend.”
I don’t know what they’re doing either. Don’t ask.