I Don�t Like Cats · 8 October 2001
Never have. By this I mean to say I’ve never actively disliked cats. I look at them and ask with calm curiosity what do you do and they never have an answer short of moping about and consuming resources and stalking off in a huff to go lick themselves until they choke.
You’ll recall the bit near the beginning of Withnail and I in which Uncle Monty completely loses his composure:
Get that damned little swine out of here! It’s trying to get itself in with you. It’s trying for even more advantage. It’s obsessed with its gut just like a bloody rugby ball. Now it will die, it will die!
That always seemed funny, if over the top: I mean, change down man, find your neutral space. It’s just a pet.
Since moving to France I’ve spent more time than ever in the proximity of cats – one house cat and a few Cheers-like irregulars – and what was once a vague dislike is quickly ramping up to mean, squinting displeasure at their existence. The house cat (named Cachou, French for booger) is okay but just utterly pointless, and is caught now and again licking the cheese. I caught one of the irregulars stealing a veal chop from the kitchen counter and ever since it’s extremely terrifying to be puddy tat hereabouts. Lots of flinging out of windows, etc.. Herself says it’s remarkable how they always land on their feet.
And now things are going to be very different indeed. After a month of looking around, we found a Weimaraner breeder near Avignon who was genial and happy to meet us on Saturday afternoon.
Ladies and Gentlemen, meet Oliver.
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