It stung, you know, that slap.
Glaring at her, I rubbed my cheek. It was the first time my Mother had ever raised a hand to me. A teenager, full of rage and uncertainty was leading me into trouble. As an adult, I now feel I deserved it. That’s how I was feeling right now.
In the Nursing Home, my Beautiful Mother was wandering the Dementia Ward. She had forgotten that slap, but I hadn’t. It had been a turning point in my life. I’d arrived at adulthood much more certain, much more grounded and appreciating all my Mother did for me.
I placed the bunch of flowers in the vase, fussing over how they were arranged, until a famillar figure came ambling into the room. Picking up the vase, I carried it to the private bathroom that was attached to the room. Half filling it with water, I listened as Mum clambered into bed.
It was a moment I’d been dreading, when she would forget my name, and who I was.
Then I heard a chuckle, as I came back out, and positioned the vase on the bedside table.
“Remember that time when I slapped you? You were so furious. Sometimes I wonder how I managed to raise a daughter like you, who even visits me everyday, no matter how crazy I am. My how the tables have turned.
Happy to have her lucid today, I returned the chuckle.
Drat!
I had this system for getting exactly what I wanted out of people.
My tail would curl skywards, my eyes take on a particular pleading quality and my meow would sound proud but starved. It worked every time.
Today, my victim was the family’s three year old.
Recently, I’d been watching him with Karl, the family dog. Charlie would get the scoop out of the second drawer in the kitchen, follow his father out of the house and to the big tin bin. Stan would then take the lid off the tin, and Charlie would dig the scoop into the dog biscuits. With a squeal of pure joy, he’d pour the biscuits into the dog bowl as Karl would watch on.
It got me thinking.
What if Charlie could get me food?
Today was my day.
Sauntering into the kitchen, I saw Charlie alone. With my high pitched I’m hungry mew, tail curled at just the right angle, my pleading eyes fixated on him. His beatufiul blues fixated on mine.
“Cat, hungry?”
Yes, oh yes.
He smiled, then used a chair to climb onto the kitchen table. Pulling a bowl of cereal off the table, its contents spilled everywhere. My eyes darted to the Weet Bix and milk, sloshing all over the floor.
It was not what I wanted. I wanted my cat food. Glancing up to the bench, I noticed an unopened tin.
It was then I realised my mistake.
Charlie didn’t know how to use a tin opener.
Coldness and consideration
Liz's Everest 