Open Up (Part 9)

Read part 8 here, or from the beginning, here. 

Celia got up to avoid the onslaught that would have been the full force of Barry Meowinglow. Heading downstairs, she went towards the kitchen to find something suitable to satiate her dear cat. She considered doing some washing, too, whilst she was at it. Maybe that would be a more productive way to spend her evening. 

She filled Mr. Meowinglow's bowl with a pouch of tuna goodness. Celia enjoyed the sounds of him munching away, despite them being a little... wet. If he was content, then that was the most important thing. 

If only it was as easy for her. The life of a cat was a sweet one. Although, that being said, Mr. Meowinglow's life had been filled with an almost improbable amount of disaster. Celia had adopted him at four months from a local rescue centre. His profile had stated that he was not very good with children, dogs, or other cats. He'd been found in a box outside the butchers. She had contemplated the reasoning behind this - was it the easiest location to dump the poor thing? Had they panicked and thought 'Ah, well at least the butchers will know what to do with it'. It was rather odd. But, at least Mr. Gillian had found Barry before he had starved or got too dehydrated. It was also probably where his obsession with venison sausages started, too. 

Barry seemed to attract disaster. A few months after she had taken him home and things were starting to look up, Barry went missing. He was gone for five days. Nobody knew where he'd been. They'd been posters and desperate Facebook pleas for his whereabouts, yielding no results. The silly thing had eventually turned up as though nothing had happened, shouting loudly outside the window. 

Then there'd been foxgate. Barry had nobly decided that defending the honour of his garden was to fall directly on his furry shoulders. The fight had been valiant, but ultimately, the fox got away worse. Celia watched it unfold. The fox, minding his own business, had then felt the heft of Barry Meowinglow coming at him full cat-sprint. It had been a sight to behold. Of course, the one scratch Barry had managed to come away with had ended up badly infected. 

He was still wonderful to her, though. Despite his affection levels dropping massively after food was safely deposited in his belly. 

Celia checked the time. 19:27. Was it really that early still? She supposed there was time to do the wash and maybe even get round to cleaning the kitchen. Perhaps after she could hop back online and get the American crowd. Although they were always the most unpredictable. She shuddered a little, recalling a very large man and his obsession with Clifford the Big Red Dog. That one had been a waste of good facepaint. Although the lead had sorta come in handy. 

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Read part 10 here.