“Hello Freddie and Gemma, how are you, and who are your friends?” asks Rufus.
“Hello squirrel,” says Gemma, “to answer your question, those were our friends who were telling us what we would do when the humans are away in terms of the cat sitter and when they’d be coming.”
“Hello, Gemma,” replies Rufus, “that’s the first time you’ve ever spoken to me and the first time you’ve ever looked at me without giving me the impression you want to eat me.”
“Because, Rufus,” says Gemma, “it is the first time I’ve looked at you and not wanted to eat you. I’ve decided that raw flesh is uncouth and unnecessary.”
“Oh, I see, “ says Rufus.
I nod my head – “Yes, Rufus, Gemma is becoming quite refined in her eating habits. I’ve even caught her reading a cookbook.”
“It was for baked goods, Rufus, I’ve often wondered how they create those flapjacks that are rectangular, and I found my answer in a book, but I didn’t attempt the recipe as I wouldn’t be able to grip the measuring cups the humans have.”
“Humans overrate cooking,” replies Rufus. “I don’t believe I’ve ever eaten anything that humans have cooked.”
“Flapjacks would be difficult for us to chew,” I say, “because they’re full of grains and we don’t have the teeth to process that kind of food.”
“I think we should go, Freddie,” says Gemma, “I can see the male human walking along the street towards us and even from this distance, he looks a lot happier than normal.”
“We should go inside,” I say to Rufus, “and we’ll see you soon. I’m pretty sure the humans will close all the windows when they go on holiday and so we may not meet again for around 15 todays.”
“Yes,” replies Rufus, “I suspect you’re right, but your secret is safe with me. I won’t tell anyone.” With that, he runs up the tree trunk and disappears into the branches.
Gemma and I skedaddle into the house and make ourselves scarce, as we are sure the humans will pack their bags for their holidays over the next few hours and won’t want us to get under their feet. Gemma goes downstairs for a nap, and I read Whose Body by Dorothy L Sayers, a murder / mystery story not written by Agatha Christie. This had been a recent purchase by the male human who’d found the book on sale at the local bookshop and brandished it in the air when he arrived home as though he’d found a diamond at a cheap price.
Julian Worker Fiction Writing 