Molly and the Cat Cafe

Trying to ignore the hunger pangs in my stomach, I glanced up at Margery, who was now busying herself at the kitchen sink. Something about the way she was muttering worried me. I had grown familiar with her domestic routines (she had carried out the same tasks every day for as long as I could remember), but I could sense that she was feeling uncertain and anxious. She carefully washed up a saucepan in the sink, taking time to dry it thoroughly with a tea towel. Afterwards she stood clutching the pan to her chest, looking nervously around the kitchen. She opened the fridge and placed the pan inside, then tutted to herself and removed it again. She proceeded to open the doors of various kitchen cupboards, frustrated to find them full of glasses or chinaware. I knew this was not her normal behaviour; or, rather, it hadn’t been normal in the past, but there was no escaping the fact that incidents like these had been happening increasingly frequently of late.

Leaving my bowl of sludgy mashed potato behind, I padded across the kitchen and stood in front of the one cupboard that she had not yet checked. Standing proudly with my tail erect, I meowed loudly.

Margery was looking around the kitchen distractedly, and it took a few yowls to attract her attention.

‘What is it, Molly?’ she asked, her tone slightly irritated.

I rubbed my head profusely against the cupboard door, willing her to understand my gesture.

Margery paused and stared at me vacantly for a moment, before leaning down and pulling the cupboard door open. ‘Oh, Molly, you clever girl!’ she exclaimed, on seeing a neat stack of saucepans inside. She placed the pan in its rightful place, then rubbed me behind the ears. I purred, touched by her gratitude, but underneath I felt a sense of disquiet deep within me.

Margery and I had been through this routine countless times in recent months. I had grown adept at watching her movements closely, noting whenever she did anything out of the ordinary, such as placing her reading glasses in the fridge or her house keys in the bathroom cabinet. When, as inevitably happened after such an occurrence, she became distressed, I would help her retrace her steps, meowing at the spot where I knew the missing item to be. At first I thought it was a game that she and I were playing together, and I congratulated myself on my powers of observation and memory. But over time I noticed that Margery didn’t enjoy the game as much as I did. In fact she was often upset and agitated, scolding herself for her stupidity.

From the outside, our life looked as though nothing had changed: Margery still pottered around the house, dusting and tidying while I dozed on the sofa, and I did my best to help her with the crossword, by sitting on the newspaper and batting at her pen while she filled in the empty squares. But she was smiling less and less, and sometimes I would find her crying in the armchair as she gazed out of the window. I did my best to comfort her, rubbing up against her cheek and purring loudly, but I sensed something was wrong that was beyond my power to fix.

There were the lapses in memory, the befuddlement, the anxiety about lost chequebooks and misplaced keys. These were infrequent at first, but gradually they became more common, until eventually they became the norm. Even with my observation skills to help guide her, Margery seemed to be losing her grip on the day-to-day practicalities of her life. Of our life.

Having placed the clean saucepan in its correct cupboard that day, Margery went into the living room to watch television. I considered curling up alongside her to spend the evening in companionable silence, but I was hungry and I knew from experience that I could not count on Margery to remember to feed me again that evening. I had a cursory sniff of the cold mashed potato, which had begun to congeal in my bowl, before slipping out through the cat flap, on the hunt for some small rodent to supplement my dinner.

When I returned home later that evening, Margery had gone to bed. I performed my usual night-time patrol around the house, checking that all the windows were closed, the front door was locked and the oven had not been left on. Satisfied that the house was safe and secure, I curled up on the sofa and went to sleep.

The following morning I was having a wash on the living-room windowsill, listening to the sounds upstairs as Margery moved slowly around her bedroom, getting dressed and brushing her hair. I hoped today would be a good day for Margery and me: that she wouldn’t be tearful, and that she would remember to give me breakfast. Hearing her tentative steps on the stairs, I jumped down from the windowsill.

Watching her closely, to make sure she negotiated safely the twist at the bottom of the stairs, I trotted out of the living room with my tail up in greeting. I chirruped a ‘hello’ and rubbed up against her ankles.

‘Oh!’ she exclaimed.

I purred in reply.