She moaned and moaned - and wriggled this way and that.
She couldn't stand it - even though it was only for a few minutes.
The poor cat hated to be alone, on the other side, separated from her master.
As the old man pooed on one side of the door, the cat cried from the other, prancing in the landing.
It wasn't the smell that bothered her, as she looked in earnest at the thin wood door pacing to and fro.
But for some reason known only to her she wanted to always share the bathroom while her owner emptied his bowels.
Leaning over the downstairs banister and looking up to the landing, peering up, he laughed to himself as he witnessed the scene. What does he do wipe his bum with it!
The cat loved him, that much was true. She, or Charlie as he called her, kept him company now he was often alone.
He had a weak bladder, and Charlie knew. He liked to think the cat was looking out for him. He always let her in, he didn't have the heart to let her cry incessantly.
She hopped about on her white paws expectantly. Each drop of faeces into the toilet bowl causing increasing consternation until finally the door handle would creak and in she shuffled.
Uh! Urrrgh! He could sometimes hear his sighs of relief as he emptied out what every filth he'd put through his body the day before. He's going to pop his bladder one day.
His daily stop by the house was a common routine, he knew he was the only visitor most days and Charlie was the only company he had. His family had long since disappeared and now he was left to his own decrepit state.
She gave him something worth living for. Something to feed and fuss over, to feed and stroke. To see when he stuttered into the kitchen in the mornings, when he got back from the shops, and to sit on his lap when he coughed and spluttered while engrossed in an old war film.
She's more devoted to him than his wife was. He probably wouldn't have disagreed. Charlie had lost all his family too. Perhaps the cat needs him too.
She certainly got spoilt, tuna in her dish one day, some chicken the next. I've never seen the cat poo like him though. He thought about that for a minute, then continued to hoover the living room - it wasn't good for his back, but at least he was able.
She couldn't stand it - even though it was only for a few minutes.
The poor cat hated to be alone, on the other side, separated from her master.
As the old man pooed on one side of the door, the cat cried from the other, prancing in the landing.
It wasn't the smell that bothered her, as she looked in earnest at the thin wood door pacing to and fro.
But for some reason known only to her she wanted to always share the bathroom while her owner emptied his bowels.
Leaning over the downstairs banister and looking up to the landing, peering up, he laughed to himself as he witnessed the scene. What does he do wipe his bum with it!
The cat loved him, that much was true. She, or Charlie as he called her, kept him company now he was often alone.
He had a weak bladder, and Charlie knew. He liked to think the cat was looking out for him. He always let her in, he didn't have the heart to let her cry incessantly.
She hopped about on her white paws expectantly. Each drop of faeces into the toilet bowl causing increasing consternation until finally the door handle would creak and in she shuffled.
Uh! Urrrgh! He could sometimes hear his sighs of relief as he emptied out what every filth he'd put through his body the day before. He's going to pop his bladder one day.
His daily stop by the house was a common routine, he knew he was the only visitor most days and Charlie was the only company he had. His family had long since disappeared and now he was left to his own decrepit state.
She gave him something worth living for. Something to feed and fuss over, to feed and stroke. To see when he stuttered into the kitchen in the mornings, when he got back from the shops, and to sit on his lap when he coughed and spluttered while engrossed in an old war film.
She's more devoted to him than his wife was. He probably wouldn't have disagreed. Charlie had lost all his family too. Perhaps the cat needs him too.
She certainly got spoilt, tuna in her dish one day, some chicken the next. I've never seen the cat poo like him though. He thought about that for a minute, then continued to hoover the living room - it wasn't good for his back, but at least he was able.
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