Bloody cats

Last night, around midnight, a tabby cat jumped onto my living room windowsill and peered in. I don't like cats and usually I will send the local cats on their way with a harsh word and the threat of violence (actually, cats have learned this now and seem to avoid Chateau Carlos). You'll understand by this how unusual it would be for a cat to take such a liberty, in my mind at least. For whatever reason, I opened the window. Maybe I admired his swagger, maybe it was the blustery night. I thought that as long as no-one was looking, I'd extend the hand - or paw - of friendship, a bit like playing football in no man's land at Christmas. I have to admit that I was prepared to allow the cat in for a while for some non-consequential petting before I would turf him back out into the darkness whence he came. The cat, by now rolling gleefully on the sill, rubbing his face on the concrete and looking every inch the relaxed gent only looked disdainfully at the open window. His blank face seemed to be saying 'you've got the wrong end of the stick, pal'. I reached out to 'help' him inside and he just patted my hand with partially sheathed claws and playfully gnawed on my fingers - sharp enough to remind me he had claws and teeth but lightly enough for there to be no real intent. After a couple of rounds of this, and his manifest lack of interest in coming out of the squalls, he gave me a final blank look, jumped down and vanished into the night.

I can't help feeling that that cat used me for for some purpose I cannot fathom. And that's why I hate cats.