This weekend, it's time to feed the upstairs neighbours cat again. At first when I moved into my flat, I wondered why she called the little furry creature 'Spike'. So I agreed on giving the little puss in boots his daily dinner whenever the neighbour girl is away on holidays.
Nobody else wants to, all pretending to be allergic to hairballs or pretending to be busy. I don't mind, I hope by doing her this favour, she won't mind feeding my three hair-spreading miawers whenever I'm escaping abroad.
So last year, she went to Cuba for a whole month. Up I went, climbing the Mount Everest stairs every day, to the third floor. Everything went perfect, the black and white animal was shy and calm the first two weeks.
The neighbour girl made notes for every task I had to perform in her penthouse. Watering her banana plant, giving drinks to the cat, scooping up the litter box and ... be careful that Spike doesn't jump your legs when you try to leave the flat, he doesn't like to be alone ...
I laughed. Why on earth would little kitty jump my legs ? He was far too shy do do that.
On the third week the cat started to be very lonely and his defences weakened. To my great joy, I could pet it and it came swirling around my legs when I entered the flat.
His behaviour changed. He was extremely happy when I came to visit him and we played a little with his toy mouse. As I walked up to the door to go downstairs again, the cat followed me. I smiled at him and turned towards the door to turn the key ...
Shouldn't have done that, I really shouldn't !
The cat sneaked up behind me and whacked the giganormous claws of his right front paw into the calf of my leg ...
I went to Fuerteventura the next day, remembering little Spike for three weeks by the nice blue bruise and matching red scratching points on my leg.
Has anybody got a hockey outfit that I can borrow this weekend ?