There was a time when I waited for Sunday. After a week of work, and I worked hard, a day of rest was very welcome. I loved to sleep. I am not an atheist, and I go to church maybe once a year for midnight mass on Christmas eve. So I'm not a churchgoer basically. Therefore Sundays did not mean that I was seated in the pews in church listening to the pastor's sermon. The pastor, in fact, would not recognise me until my sister, who goes more often to church, introduced me as her brother after Christmas Eve mass. I also had a problem sleeping and would lie awake at nights trying desperately trying to fall asleep. I tried counting sheep and it never worked. I also tried those sleeping videos on YouTube. I listened \ and felt bored. They were not music I was familiar with and they kept my eyelids firmly apart. Even a safe tranquillizer that my doctor prescribed did not have any effect. The only thing to do then was to switch on
'Another Sunday', I told myself as I crawled out of the bed on all fours.
I scuttled sideways as the Cat also got off the bed.
"Watch where you're going mate," he said giving me a left hook.
"Hooker!" I exclaimed indignantly.
"I'm a Southpaw," he exclaimed treading on my left toe.
"Watch where you are going pal," I said as I watched the toe turn purple.
"I'm going to get breakfast," the Cat said.
"I don't have mice in the fridge," I said sourly.
"I don't like leftovers anyway," said the Cat.
I was still on all fours trying to disentangle myself from the bed sheet. "And, switch off the AC," I told the Cat.
"Nah," he replied, "Just have a look at the thermometer will you?"
"I'm not sick," I replied miffed.
"You will be if my breakfast is not ready in ten minutes," the Cat said piqued.
"You can tell that to the cook," I said scornfully.
"Tell the cook that I don't like starving in the morning," he said crossing his eyes.
"Why are you crossing your eyes?" I asked surprised.
"Because I'm cross," he replied.
"All right, all right," I said tripping on the bed sheet again.
"You can ask the bed sheet to remain still while you get your bearings," the Cat replied helpfully.
I managed to tiptoe out of the bed sheet as the cook arrived.
"Ah! There you are," I said happily.
"Have you been messing with the Cat again?" she demanded.
"No, he did," I complained.
"He must have wanted breakfast, poor thing," the Cook said pausing to stroke the Cat.
"He was demanding mice for breakfast," I said meanly.
"He never eats such horrid things, he is a gourmand," she said proudly.
"Better watch what you say about the Cat, he does not like being provoked on an empty stomach," I said warningly.
"He will not be hungry for long. Come along Cat, I'll give you breakfast," she said and bustled away.
"What about me?" I demanded.
"Go and brush your false teeth first," the Cat, replied.
"I always apply boot polish on them at night and also in the morning," I said drawing myself up proudly.
"What would you like for breakfast?" the Cat asked changing the topic.
"What are you having?" I asked the Cat cautiously.
"A double helping of ham and eggs, French toast, salmons, marmalade and a pot of iced coffee," the Cat replied. "Cats shall not live by bread alone."
"Who made that rule?" I asked stunned.
"I did," the Cat, replied, "I'm always improvising on the rules."
"You mean you like bending rules," I asked.
"Make them pliable and more usable," he replied.
"It's better than breaking them," I nodded in agreement.
After finishing breakfast, I sat down to read the newspaper.
The Cat took away the Racing page.
I looked askance at him. "Are you going to bet on horses?"
"Fillies may be," the Cat said pensively, "Young fillies are usually a good bet."
"You mean you keep squinting at female horses?" I asked.
"No need to squint, I have your binoculars," he informed me.
"But they are for bird watching!" I exclaimed.
"Females or fillies, what is the difference?" he asked with a lazy shrug.
"I don't know," I replied weakly.
"In the first case, men keep running with eyes bulging out at females," the Cat explained, "and in the second, females with bulging waistlines run after their husbands, to stop them from blowing away two month's rent on bets, booze and bum steers."
"Where did you learn that philosophy?" I asked wondering.
"Bertrand Russell," the Cat replied smugly.
"Any other talent you have?" I asked amazed.
"Just two others," the Cat replied, "eating and sleeping."
"No wonder you are getting fat," I pointed out.
"I'm not fat," he replied contesting my point.
"You'll soon be gross," I sniggered.
"That's 12 dozen," the Cat pointed out.
"I was always weak in maths," I admitted.
"Weak in the head generally," the Cat pointed out kindly.
"But a cat can't grow to size twelve," I exclaimed. "What will you do for your shoes, socks and underwear? They will not fit anymore!"
"I will get some more from the departmental store," he replied smugly.
"You mean, on my credit card?" I asked suspiciously.
"Your credit has always been good. I always give credit where credit is due," the Cat replied turning on the AC full blast, "let's do a bit of betting."
"Yes," I replied being reckless, "But what shall be done for money?"
"We will use loaves and fishes! You bet with loaves and I will bet with fishes," he replied airily.
"I will have to ask the Cook," I replied cautiously.
"There will be no gambling in this house," the Cook said appearing on the scene, "as it is both of you sleep day and night. I don't know what you do when you're dreaming, but at least have your morals when awake!"
"That's the moral of the story," the Cat sighed, winked and went back to sleep.
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