I’m a tabbie given to Andrew and Robbie by their mum when they were going through a hard time. They saw me when they visited a school friend and he showed them my mothrer and the litter she’d just birthed in his cupboard. I was the runt, the last one left and would be delivered once I was weaned.
I was given the name Hobbsie after the toy tiger in Calvin and Hobbs, I didn’t disappoint them. I was a scallywag always getting into mischief but as a kitten, just small enough to be held in their palms, all they wanted to do was stroke and cuddle me.
They would fight over who would have me in bed at night. Robbie often won the war and I learnt to slip between the sheets and feel him warm against me. Edie, his mum, read to us before she turned off the lights and Andrew would interrupt the reading and make it difficult for their mum to continue. I think Andrew was upset and jealous that it was Robbie who had my company.
When the boys were away at school, their grandma looked after me and would take me into the back garden as she planted vegetables and harvested the fruit trees. I loved climbing and scratching and I would chase any insect I would find. I couldn’t be lost in the tall grass as my striped black and yellow fur would stand out.
I loved all of the family but in different ways. It was grandma who put the bottle top on the kitchen floor and taught me to play soccer as she kicked it and I flicked it with my paws. The boys would scream with delight as I raced around the kitchen chasing the top as it bounced off the cupboards.
Their mum bought them a laser light and they would move the red dot all over the place and as I would chase it, they would try and have me climb the walls. I was fast and agile no longer the runt, and I could jump and twist easily and amuse them for hours.
When we went to live with their dad, it was a different world. They were often left alone but I was there to protect them.
One night, their dad coming home at 4 am, tired from dealing with drunks, found a surprise sitting in the middle of his bed. Yelling, ‘Shit! Shit! Shit!’ he woke us.
Racing to his room we watched as he dragged his doona to the bathroom cursing me all the way. Flipping the present into the loo, he tried to flush the pile away. To his surprise it didn’t move no matter how many times he pressed the button.
Confused, he didn’t understand why the boys couldn’t stop laughing. Their mum, with her wicked sense of humour, had given Robbie a khaki coloured plastic cat poo, and he had put the gift in the middle of his dad’s bed.
Burnside Writers Group 