Greeks treat cats pretty badly. Anyone who has been here at a tourist hotspot will have been pestered by thin-looking moggies at more or less every restaurant in town. When the tourists go, the weak ones die or are killed by the locals. Only the strongest survive on rats and mice until the tourists arrive again. It is all rather brutal and something the natives would rather that tourists did not dig into, too much.
My neighbours suggest I need to kidnap lots of cats to keep at the Greek Hovel to eat the snakes. They know that I shall be gone soon and that the cats would then starve as the wildlife starts to hibernate. They don’t care. In my sentimental way, thinking of my rather plump cats back in Wales who regard it as a breach of their “Whuman” rights if they are not served two full meals a day, I do. So I veto the suggestion.
But there has been a cat up here. I first met her as a kitten and, you may remember, that last year she came to show me three kittens all of which sadly perished. She was black and white and her boyfriend was all black, for he came along too last year.
I have yet to see the original cat. Joshua and I speculate what may have happened to her. After all, she is now seven and there are many dangers for a cat like her up here in the hills. But yesterday the boyfriend did appear, clambering over building materials discarded at the far end of the garden. I have long feared that those materials would provide a good home for snakes and so I welcome his arrival. Happy hunting old boy.
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