7 a.m. on a lazy sunday morning after a pretty 'hard at it' Saturday night and we're going at the job of girl-on-girl pretty damned well. We are in the zone. Getting wet. When, the phones rings and as you'd expect, we leave it. Concentration broken, the moment all but over, we try to recapture what we had only minutes before then the phone rings again, then again . . . when a phone goes that many times at that ungodly hour of that godly day, you'd best know where your black dress is.
But no, nothing so sombre as that, what this is all about, this very early Sunday morning ding-a-ling, is a cat. I lay there wondering how it would have panned out, the sex, not the cat shit, while I listen to a one-sided panic-laden conversation taking place between exes who still share feline feelings for animals . . . an interloper from another planet might well misconstrue this kind of animated detailia of animalia as a human person receiving news of a death . . . and it is, in a strange way.
It is the death of innocence for the intentional wayfarer slash tourist laying naked waiting for the conversation to end and the sex to reconvene but then realizing that the sex isn't going to get jump started anyhow because a cat on a hot tin roof in some suburban backyard is obviously going to rule this furball of a theological morning. They are discussing rock throwing, absailing, mace, hose pipes, water shortages, the fire brigade, litter trays, pet food, in the way that night-weary gamblers discuss the pros and cons of a roll of the die. At least one of them, my one, is handling her end with some kind of level-headed decency, as all I can hear from the other end is shrieking and I believe for a second or two that the cat pinned down on the ex's neighbour's roof by a posse of bigger uglier neighbourhood hellcats is actually on the phone itself.
I'm thinking I'm laying in a lesbian cliché. How can this be? Why I am here? This is not my beautiful house, that is not my beautiful wife, yet, and, that cat is certainly no concern of mine. I mean, let's face it, if the dog was up on the roof then fair enough, but what's the big head-shrinking deal about a cat being up on a roof? Insofar as I know, cat's have been up on roofs since roofs were first invented. In the Serengeti it's quite common to wake up and find a lion sunbathing on your, or, your neighbour's roof. Get over it. But obviously not in suburbia. They are still trying to talk it through anyhow, in that irrational, completely paranoid, way dykes discuss animals in. I pull on my knickers, go get a cup of coffee, sit outside and watch some other cat stalking a colourful looking bird. Nature in all of its beauty three-floors below me. If I had a BB gun I could pop a cap in that pussy's ass from up here no problems . . . oh, my part of the dynamic duo of Batwoman and Catwoman is back looking exhausted. Runs a hand through her bedraggled hair, tries to make not-so-light of the whole insanity now – I finish my coffee, tip the slops over the balcony and it just misses that stalking cat which then shoots up a tree. You see, a cat in a tree, no big deal. I go back to the bedroom and make bedroom eyes but the cat people and their furry business have already stolen my lover's mind away for today . . . what next I wonder, Andrew Lloyd Webber calling reverse charges to discuss a lesbian version of Cats? Dr. Do-little is my name on this holy day.
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