You may pet me. Briefly.
Oh, you’re allergic to cats, are you? Have fun getting to the Kleenex, chippy.
My legs are long, my stare is derisive.
Cats are rogues and vagabonds. Or they ought to be.
Dame Helen will grow into her ears, but your American ass will look like that forever.
Dame Helen sees your fancy cat toy. She is sufficiently amused. For now.
This is Helen’s tail. It, like the rest of her, is four months old. Last night, Helen curled up in the crook of my arm and watched Sherlock with me for one hour and twenty seven minutes. She fancies Benedict Cumberbatch. Who doesn’t, Helen? Who does not.
