Moby, the Great White…

Molly’s disappearance into my son’s bedroom was to become the biggest hissy fit in McNeny history.   It coincided with the arrival of a white bundle of fur, just six weeks old.  We named him, Moby, the great white cat.  He was irresistible to all but one, the presiding ruler of the house, Molly.  Aged six now and old enough to know better, she hated him more than she hated Watson.  I thought Moby would bring out the maternal instinct in her but obviously I don’t know anything about jealous cats.  I’m sure she would have killed him if she’d found the gun.

Moby became the centre of the universe for all of us including Watson.  Molly’s absence, I’m ashamed to say, did not make our hearts grow fonder.  I think she came out to eat at night, but I can honestly say, we all but forgot we had another cat while the great white Moby dwelt among us.   He was a perfect blend of cat and dog.  He’d do his cat stuff, lie in wait for passing ankles, he’d do his dog stuff, lick our faces.  Then he’d do his cat stuff, get entangled in the sheets while we made the bed, then his dog stuff, touch noses.  Back to his cat stuff, climb the living room curtains, then the dog stuff, greet our party guests.  He was a total schizoid and made us all, except Molly, very happy.

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