There is a sort of truce in the air here at the Manor.
There is a palpable tension though, so I think I can sympathise with the Palestinians and Syrians. The peace is lovely but every now and then cat or the dog breaks the truce whereupon chaos abounds and one side or the other goes tearing for cover. Though so far the only blood spilled is my own, from tripping over a water dish that wasn’t there yesterday morning.
The dog is treating the cat with mild curiosity. Her experience of cats consists of chasing them at high speed around the garden in the dark. She isn’t quite sure what to make of one in full daylight, in the house and that doesn’t try heading for the next parish. It isn’t dark or in the garden, ergo it must not be a cat. So what the fuck is it?
The cat, on the other hand seems to know damn well what Penny is, but isn’t quite sure of himself. Every now and then when Penny is dozing, he’ll sneak up to her for a closer inspection, not realising that Penny has perfected the art of falling asleep with one eye half open.
The rules of engagement are simple. Everything is fine if they are both still. They will stare at each other in a poor attempt at hypnosis, each refusing to blink first. Usually the cat will have taken refuge on the kitchen table while the dog remains at ground level with a dogged determination not to let the cat down to floor level again.
If the cat makes a move, the dog tends to back off in a hurry and hide behind my legs. She’s a big softie at heart. However if the cat makes the mistake of breaking into a fast move then all hell breaks loose. Penny is now on familiar territory, the penny has dropped and she now recognises this intruder to be a cat, so will merrily chase it back onto the kitchen table or some other safe spot. I have already had to drag it backwards from up the sitting room chimney.
On a different note, there is a bit of a gender problem. For the last fifteen years or so I have been the only member of the male species in the house, while Penny, Sandy and Herself are/were of the opposite persuasion. The tendency is therefore to refer to all animals [including Herself] as “she”, so naturally the cat falls into that category. But she – he – it is a male [or rather it was] so I spend my time referring to “she – he – it” [shit for short?] in a futile attempt to be politically correct. In fact, to save a lot of trouble I just refer to “cat” all the time and leave pronouns and given names out of the equation altogether. It makes life a lot easier.
Things are quiet at the moment. Penny is dozing beside her dish just in case cat should attempt something above its station. I don’t know where cat is, though judging by Penny’s rolling eyeball, it’s somewhere up the far end of the room.
It’s probably brainwashing mice into wearing suicide vests to attack Penny.
These truces never last very long.