I Need To Talk To Someone About a Little Protection... if you know what I mean

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Next-door's cat has taken a hit out on me. Some may say that I am paranoid, but its not paranoia if someone's really watching you. Or something.

I first observed his stake-out about two days ago when I caught sight of his eyes gleaming in the furthermost corner of the courtyard outside my window. As soon as he saw that I had seen him, he bolted indoors. Why this suspicious behavior, I ask you? Well. My windows are floor-to-ceiling, and I am certain he is planning an attack on me and my home.

This has continued everyday since. Today he was spotted checking my window hinges for weak spots. He is biding his time, playing it safe till I am next caught unawares.

Jonny is of the paranoia school of thought:

'Maybe he just wants to make friends?' He optimistically suggests.

'That's the kinda talk that could get a man killed.' I tell him.

This evening, as I left my appartement to wander along the streets and maybe find something to eat, he was there! Skinny and unblinking he watched me from next-door's hallway (they have conveniently left their front door open for him) without so much as a quiver. I knew what he was thinking. We eyeballed each other for five or six minutes before the pressure got to me and I ran for the main entrance before he knew what hit him. I was lucky that time, but my luck will surely run out sooner or later.

The French like their pets the way they like their children: small and constant. French children are nothing if not sweet. They are also the smallest I've ever seen: little doll-children. They also all speak French, which, especially when spoken by a child, is the loveliest sound in the world. That's my ideal kind of child. They are able to spend hours socializing, which is also a bonus. A six-year-old French child would probably outlast me at a party without so much as a fevered brow. Last night (a Saturday), the restaurants were scattered with tiny little children sitting at dinner tables, drinking wine discussing politics in a very mild-mannered fashion. None of this bedtime rubbish. It is typical French: see the way the rest of the world is going.... then casually ignore it. There wasn't a tantrum in sight, mind you. Delightful.

But back to the pets. I do not share the French sentimentality when it comes to pets, and neither does my father, which says a lot depending on where you're coming from. I once knew a girl who took her dog to a 'dog psychiatrist' where it was promptly treated by being initiated into a 'Circle of Love'. The Circle of Love, alas, was a fickle place and the dog - mind, the dog not the owner - was asked to take its place in the corner. I like to think of it fondly as the Corner of Shame. Incensed by this obvious injustice, the dog began barking until it was dismissed from the class altogether, and deemed past all help. Damn fine dog, if you ask me.

Now, here's the point: my father told this same story to some friends of his from the West Indies and they incredulously refused to believe a word of it. It was past their wildest dreams. Those who did believe him laughed till they were sick and then promptly commissioned my father to regale their guests with the tale at forthcoming parties. Let's put it this way: the French would have no trouble believing him, that's all I'm saying. This said, the dogs in France- like the children - seem modestly resigned to being carted along to this dinner and that and on the whole won't bother you any more than a sniff at the sole of your shoes. But the cats. Well, that's a story to be continued...

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