Cat Poo Watching

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.

Trundling bus

The bus arrived.
Not bad for a Sunday, pretty much on time.

It was almost empty and he had his pick of the seats. His only gripe was the price of his ticket.
He'd inadvertently sacrificed money for time.
You have to get a return on this one, he was told by the driver.
Money and time, seemed to be at the route of our very existence he decided.

He looked at everything with romance today.

Everything seemed romantic, nostalgic, and reminicisable to him.
He couldn't and perhaps wouldn't shake it.
He liked living ignis fatuus, though who knew what consequences that might bring.

The trees on the hills across the valley - what stories could they tell?
How he imagined the comings and going they'd seen, the times long before roads and people filled the land, when animals roamed freely and hunters and gatherers survived in the surroundings.

Those trees on the valley must have some stories to tell. What history had they seen?

He thought to of the river, criss-crossing under the train line and the roads, there for so long, for eternities. It's current ran strong, and bashed over rocks, trees lined its side as it appeared and disappeared from view.



It seemed to him almost severed from the life of the streets and of people.



How travellers and villagers must have toiled up and down that river in times gone by.

Everything seemed lost to the past now. The old Victorian houses dominated his eyes. How much change had they seen. Some were in ruin. Some next to inferior modern homes. Rows and rows of these old houses, lined in straight quaint terraces passed before his eyes. Some were painted cheerily and many he could tell must have had a nice back garden view.

To have his mind filled with such thoughts and ideas on that Sunday bus ride was gratifying to him. The bus flew along the narrow roads, taking sharp turns and tight corners.
He read a little, but the brilliant blue sky and the hills distracted him until he gave up.

How clean it felt, no open mines now.

Old men got on and off the bus, some with walking sticks, some with coughs, some with small limps. They are not quite as old as the houses, but almost. They looked like they had had hard lives, but their voices at least hid it.

Wonder what they have been through.

Ruined homes, ruined people. That thought was a little harsh he concluded. Most home and most people are just fine.

The bus trundled on.

It gave way to others, and some gave way to it. The motion of the accommodating drivers seemed so natural and orderly, never a hint of annoyance. The pulling in and pulling out, the flashing of lights, the raised fingers of thanks, and the nods of acknowledgement were all so rhythmic and flowing.  

Past a local school it turned, the modern main building set back from the street and front yard.
A war memorial a hundred years old, with a grand clock face, stood on the corner reminding all who passed of the local men lost to a bigger cause.

Interesting that that memorial is right next to the school.

He wouldn't be long at his destination. There was little time to idle, get in, get out, that was it.

That pub was nice yesterday.
Couldn't understand some of the things that bloke said though.
He was friendly enough mind, nice to chat about the football during the game.
He seemed to know his stuff.
It was a bit surprising how quiet it was.
They'll be no problem going back though.

He got off and walked through the park. The main road was busy, but it didn't matter.

The sun was shining, and winter seemed far away.