George who???, you rightly wonder. Marlow, people. George Marlow. The reason we bought a broom. I’ll give you a hint: it purrs, it meows and it likes to idle in the sun.
My ex-neighbor’s ex-tomcat. His name is George Marlow. Obviously, George just wouldn’t be enough. He has to have a last name, too. You can’t kill mice, gut them out and then drop them onto my doorstep without a last name. You can’t sleep snugly in my baby buggy and smear it with mud without a last name. You can’t lurk on windowsills and then jump straight into my face the second I crack the door open without a last name. Does his highness enjoy taking a nap on my freshly washed linen? Does he, now?…
It is a simple story actually, the story of this yellow-striped cat and its lawless ways. There used to be this guy living upstairs from us. His wife had a cat. His wife got pregnant. His wife got rid of the cat. The cat did not starve, of course, nor did he go too far, as he found nice cozy lodgings and a juicy meal just down the road. As a result of that, the cat got even fatter and continued to roam my garden day and night, unrelenting and shameless. Eventually the neighbors moved, but the cat stayed. It is about the size of a puma now, sitting there on the picket fence staring me with its dagger-throwing eyes. Oh, yeah, I can wield a broom alright! 🙂
Get a load of this, you aristo-cat!
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