Dave needs Therapy.

Of our four cats Dave wears his heart on his stomach and Britney has a PhD in all things cat. In metaphorical geography Dave comes from Mugglethorpe Bottom and Britney from Newnham College, Cambridge. Breakfast time this morning, and Dave, Domino and Betty are tucking into their bowls of dried food on the floor. Dave finishes his and insinuates himself into the other two. Britney is looking out the front window confident of her non-reliance on human providence. When ready she makes her way onto the top of the fridge where we put the cup of excess; what’s left after the food’s been doled out. She delicately knocks it over and paws out a piece at a time until replete. Now Dave rarely leaves the floor, in fact he’s the only cat I know who you can hear coming, but this morning something set his heart beating like never before. Britney atop that white thing by the door had found the MAGIC CUP, the cup of ancient cat lore that is never empty, that provides endlessly, albeit one piece at a time. Drawn by his own insatiable appetite he mounted the settee in full on stealth mode, along and onto the worktop, back behind the bread bin, around the fruit bowl, sideways past the bowl of keys and sat in wonder watching Britney, the MAGIC CUP and the food delivery. After satisfying himself it was all true, not just a figment of his hungry imagination, he leapt the gap to the fridge top. In her usual nonchalant fashion Britney seemed to say, “Here want some, sure help yourself”, and leapt down from the fridge leaving Dave alone with the cup. Sure enough there in front of him as if in his wildest dream was one morsel fresh from the cup. He ate it and waited. He waited a little longer. Slowly a painful realisation, a sick saddening shudder permeated his being. HE COULD NOT WORK THE MAGIC CUP! I’ve never seen such a depressed cat. He leapt down with a loud thud and left to heal his soul on a chair by the fire, which was not lit. TYPICAL! Life’s a bitch and then you die.