have to use the bus on the way back. Usually I’m on my own, but today he is with me. We walk down to the main road to the bus stop and I tell him that I want to visit Tesco to buy some cat food for Mr Pooter.
“He doesn’t like the dry stuff, he’s not used to it.”
Michael says his mum got the dry stuff specially. He sounds a bit hurt, like I’m criticising. “She thought it would be better…less messy. Save having to keep washing up cat bowls all the time.”
I tell him that I would wash them up. I always did, at home. I did all the washing up. And the drying. And the putting away. Mum couldn’t manage it, so I took over. I didn’t mind.
We go into Tesco and I buy four tins of very expensive cat food. I can only afford four out of my pocket money. Michael seems to think I’m mad, spending all that on a mere cat. He doesn’t say mere cat, but I know that is what he is thinking. He says why don’t I get own brand? “It’s probably just as good.” I say thatMr Pooter needs to be tempted. He hasn’t been eating well just lately.
“That’s probably cos he’s old,” says Michael. “I mean…how long can cats live?”
I don’t want to think about how long cats can live.
“Fifteen?” says Michael.
Mr Pooter is sixteen. But Stevie had cats that lived to be twenty.
“There’s nothing wrong with him,” I say. “He just doesn’t like dry food. It may be because of his teeth. this’ll be easier for him.”
“Well, you’d better not let Mum know,” says Michael. “She wouldn’t like the thought of you feeding him tinned stuff in your bedroom. She doesn’t mind if it’s dry, but not out of a tin.”
“It’s all right, he won’t make a mess,” I say. “He’s a very clean cat.”
Michael goes “Hm,” like he doesn’t believe a cat can be clean.
“I know your mum hates him,” I say.
“She doesn’t hate him. She just doesn’t like having animals indoors.”
“He can’t live outdoors!”
“No, she wouldn’t make him,” says Michael. “She wouldn’t be unkind, or anything. But she likes the place to look nice. She didn’t have nice things when she was a girl. Nan and Grandad always had to struggle.”
I think to myself that Mum and me had to struggle too, especially after Mum got ill. And we didn’t have nice things, either; just each other, and Mr Pooter, and loads of books. It was all we needed, really.
“See, Mum and Dad,” says Michael, “have worked hard to get where they are. It upsets them when things get spoilt. I guess it would upset anyone, unless they were millionaires.”
I wonder what millionaires have to do with it.
“They could replace stuff,” says Michael. “Mum and Dad can’t. I don’t suppose your mum could, either.”
I agree that she couldn’t. “But Mum didn’t mind a bit of mess. She always said she’d rather have Mr Pooter andthe odd furball or scratched chair than everything neat and clean and no cat to keep us company.”
“I guess everyone’s different,” says Michael. and then, as we leave Tesco and start walking back to the bus stop, he says, “What did you mean the other day when you said you were an android?”
“I just…” My voice trails off; I don’t know how to answer. How can I explain what I meant? I wish I’d never said it. “I just…it was just…an expression.”
“Androids aren’t human,” says Michael. “D’you reckon you’re not human?”
I stand at the bus stop, clutching my bag full of cat food tins. Slowly, I shake my head.
“They don’t feel anything. D’you reckon you don’t feel anything?”
I stay silent.
“Dad says you’ve closed up. He says that’s not good.”
I stare determinedly, straight ahead.
“Mum says it’s your way of coping. She says if you want to talk, you’ll talk, and if you don’t, it’s up to you. anyway.”Michael sticks out his hand as the bus appears. “You feel something for Mr Pooter,” he says, “so you can’t be totally android.”
We
“He doesn’t like the dry stuff, he’s not used to it.”
Michael says his mum got the dry stuff specially. He sounds a bit hurt, like I’m criticising. “She thought it would be better…less messy. Save having to keep washing up cat bowls all the time.”
I tell him that I would wash them up. I always did, at home. I did all the washing up. And the drying. And the putting away. Mum couldn’t manage it, so I took over. I didn’t mind.
We go into Tesco and I buy four tins of very expensive cat food. I can only afford four out of my pocket money. Michael seems to think I’m mad, spending all that on a mere cat. He doesn’t say mere cat, but I know that is what he is thinking. He says why don’t I get own brand? “It’s probably just as good.” I say thatMr Pooter needs to be tempted. He hasn’t been eating well just lately.
“That’s probably cos he’s old,” says Michael. “I mean…how long can cats live?”
I don’t want to think about how long cats can live.
“Fifteen?” says Michael.
Mr Pooter is sixteen. But Stevie had cats that lived to be twenty.
“There’s nothing wrong with him,” I say. “He just doesn’t like dry food. It may be because of his teeth. this’ll be easier for him.”
“Well, you’d better not let Mum know,” says Michael. “She wouldn’t like the thought of you feeding him tinned stuff in your bedroom. She doesn’t mind if it’s dry, but not out of a tin.”
“It’s all right, he won’t make a mess,” I say. “He’s a very clean cat.”
Michael goes “Hm,” like he doesn’t believe a cat can be clean.
“I know your mum hates him,” I say.
“She doesn’t hate him. She just doesn’t like having animals indoors.”
“He can’t live outdoors!”
“No, she wouldn’t make him,” says Michael. “She wouldn’t be unkind, or anything. But she likes the place to look nice. She didn’t have nice things when she was a girl. Nan and Grandad always had to struggle.”
I think to myself that Mum and me had to struggle too, especially after Mum got ill. And we didn’t have nice things, either; just each other, and Mr Pooter, and loads of books. It was all we needed, really.
“See, Mum and Dad,” says Michael, “have worked hard to get where they are. It upsets them when things get spoilt. I guess it would upset anyone, unless they were millionaires.”
I wonder what millionaires have to do with it.
“They could replace stuff,” says Michael. “Mum and Dad can’t. I don’t suppose your mum could, either.”
I agree that she couldn’t. “But Mum didn’t mind a bit of mess. She always said she’d rather have Mr Pooter andthe odd furball or scratched chair than everything neat and clean and no cat to keep us company.”
“I guess everyone’s different,” says Michael. and then, as we leave Tesco and start walking back to the bus stop, he says, “What did you mean the other day when you said you were an android?”
“I just…” My voice trails off; I don’t know how to answer. How can I explain what I meant? I wish I’d never said it. “I just…it was just…an expression.”
“Androids aren’t human,” says Michael. “D’you reckon you’re not human?”
I stand at the bus stop, clutching my bag full of cat food tins. Slowly, I shake my head.
“They don’t feel anything. D’you reckon you don’t feel anything?”
I stay silent.
“Dad says you’ve closed up. He says that’s not good.”
I stare determinedly, straight ahead.
“Mum says it’s your way of coping. She says if you want to talk, you’ll talk, and if you don’t, it’s up to you. anyway.”Michael sticks out his hand as the bus appears. “You feel something for Mr Pooter,” he says, “so you can’t be totally android.”
We
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