A lesson in the art of cat-wooing

As our eyes met across the hall, the both of us could sense a buzz in the air.

I paid her no further attention.Years of experience had taught me that the ideal strategy in these situations was to play hard to get.

I placed my order and sat down at a table pretending as if I were engrossed with my phone, studiously avoiding looking in her general direction.

Before long, the food arrived and with it, she followed as well. She wasn’t getting a lot of love tonight and so she sauntered across to me, finally conceding defeat. She impatiently frolicked between my feet, purring incessantly to get a bite of the chicken curry that I was currently digging into. I threw her a nibble, and watched in awe as she meticulously devoured it, proceeding to lick herself in glee.

I purchased a glass of flavoured milk and tranferred it to a transparent plastic container, placing it plumly within her view. Her eyes widened like saucers and I knew I had her right where I wanted her.

I picked up the glass and began walking to my room and sure enough, she began to follow.

She climbed the steps slowly and reluctantly, cursing herself for not being able to walk away.

I left the door open and she stuck her head in, surveying the contents of my room to ensure it lived up to her standards. Only when she had completed a through look-around did she finally step in.

Now, you should know that I have always admired cats, albeit from a distance. This was the first time I had been within close proximity of one for such an extended period of time. So, I was completely inexperienced in the art of cat-wooing.

I placed the flavoured milk on the floor and she hungrily began gulping it down.

I mustered all the courage I could and softly stroked her head. It was now her turn to play hard to get.

As has always been the case when I am confounded by the actions of a female, I turned to an old confidant.

Google.

Before long, I had learnt the proper etiquette and was rubbing her belly while she purred with satisfaction.

I was proud of myself and had even begun to imagine a future together.

I named her Kalashnikov in my mind. In all fairness, she did look a bit Russian.

Kalash would wake me up in the morning everyday by licking my face. Then she would get depressed as I left for work. Her joy would know no bounds when I returned. We would watch a movie with dinner and then fall asleep in each other’s arms.

I turned off the light and took one final glance at her, sprawled across the floor in all her feline glory.

At 4 a.m. the next morning, I was rudely awoken by the taste of fur in my mouth. Kalash had woken up and was walking across my bed, eager to play.

I opened the door and let her out.

Sleep always gets first preference….even over a Russian-looking cat.