There was consternation in `the Hood` recently. The familiar large white cat who lives in a house nearby, where he has enslaved his adoring “owners”, was missing. Snowy (not his real name), when bored, wanders from that house with a languid gait – which, were it speech, could be described as a drawl – to any other house in the estate of his unhurried choosing.
There, he parks his ample posterior, awaits the fawning attention of all passersby, surveys his kingdom and his minions (ie, us) to the limits of his mind’s eye, with an imperiousness that borders on contempt but befits an emperor overseeing underlings. In his world, there are only underlings.
This does not inspire universal affection. So when the slaves resident at his house emerged one recent morning in a panic to say that Snowy was missing, the news did not necessarily inspire such universal anxiety, even grief, as they expected. Though no one said so.
The Hood WhatsApp group was suddenly on fire with suggestions as to where Snowy might have wandered while, sotto voce, some of us lessers speculated that he may, hopefully, have found a better kingdom or that, while undertaking conduct unbecoming overnight, he met a stronger rival who had done unto him as we wished to, but forever hesitated as it would upset his slaves, our good neighbours.
‘Lots of guests got tattooed’: Jack Reynor and best man Sam Keeley on his wedding, making speeches and remaining friends
Forêt restaurant review: A masterclass in French classic cooking in Dublin 4
I went to the cinema to see Small Things Like These. By the time I emerged I had concluded the film was crap
Charlene McKenna: ‘Within three weeks, I turned 40, had my first baby and lost my father’
To our disappointment, Snowy was found on a neighbouring estate, in shock, bruised and with injuries to an eye. He had been up to no good, clearly. The news was greeted on the WhatsApp group with a mixture of delight and distress at his being lost but found again, if in a state.
His principal slaves were thrilled, alarmed and thrilled again. They brought him to a vet who assured them he would make a full recovery with some tender, loving care, as if he’d ever experienced any other kind. All so sickening – the diagnosis and the reaction to it. Spare me.
Soon he was back in his home again while, a little later, his first walk back in the Hood was enthusiastically documented in photo after photo on WhatsApp, with gushing captions. “Such a lovely mascot. I am so glad he survived,” trilled another of his slaves in the Hood. Joy to the world! Sure.
‘Hood’, short for `neighbourhood’ in African-American slang.
