I love cats. We had quite a few of them whilst living in Tamworth, but none of the ones my family ever had were quite as cool as Alexander, a grey Burmese that Dave had bought from a breeder in town.
Alex was a pretty smart cat. He could play fetch just like a dog. You
scrunch up a bit of paper and throw it, and he'd slink off, pick it up
in his teeth and return it, dropping it at your feet. He didn't do it
all the time though, after all, he's a cat. He'd give you a look as if
to say “you threw it, get it yourself – I'm busy”.
He
had also figured out how to open screen doors. Not the sliding ones,
but the decorative secure doors. He'd climb up the screen, place his
back paw on the handle, and push down on it, opening the door. When it
swung open, he jumped off the screen and escaped. He didn't like
staying in doors and tried his best to get outside whenever possible.
Sometimes Dave would even take him for a walk on a leash, which was funny and cool at the same time.
Alexander
also had a half-brother to play with, bought from the same breeder. He was a
chocolate coloured furball named Leopold, who generally just lazed
around the flat all day, and who may even be still alive, living in the
country with one of Dave's many online friends.
But
I digress, this monologue is about Alex. Like most cats, he was curious.
One day he had climbed into my backpack just to see what was inside.
For a laugh, I zipped it up and walked off. I opened it
up five minutes later and he just looked at me, expecting something
else to happen. When it didn't, he climbed out and slinked off somewhat
disappointed.
Unfortunately, Alex passed away a few years later. He contracted (the cat version of) leukaemia, and despite the vet's efforts to keep him alive, in the end he just had to let him go. He was pretty shattered by his death.