Mainstream - Mr Chester

It occurs to me that in some ways, being in a relationship impedes a man's ability to feel emotion, and that long term this may begin to cause problems.

It might just be me, of course.

The reason this thought skitters across my mind is that Sunday last, there was a storm over Impedimentia.

Actually, that isn't exactly right. That's like saying that the reason I got sick on omelette the other day is because one day there was a chicken. And if we're being as abstract as that, the reason this thought actually skitters across my mind is because recently we moved house. And if we're being that nit-picky, it's actually because I met this girl. Which is how all good stories, tragedies, triumphs and nervous breakdowns with scattered alcoholism should begin.

And then ultimately, if one extends one's point, it boils down to it all being my mother's fault.

(As an aside, Dry Your Eyes by The Streets has started playing on the radio, and I yet again realise that I'll have to find a new favourite song on that album, as the wonderful triumphant melancholy of that song has been undercut for me by overheard yobs on Friday night busses, Saturday night glass-crusted pavements, and at top volume after the traditional Sunday night through-the-wall neighbour domestic incident.)

Anyway, on Sunday night, there was a storm. And at some point during that storm, one of our two prized pusses, Mr Chester, failed to return home. He didn't come home for his dinner, and then he didn't come home when called before our bedtime.

The missus didn't actually register this, as she was having a drunken night in with the other grandmother of our dog's puppies. I only vaguely registered it, as although Mr Chester is a particularly neurotic specimen, and never normally misses a meal, cats are notoriously unreliable animals, and he could easily have been weathering the storm somewhere sheltered.

He's good at finding shelter. It's actually quite impressive how often he arrives home with obviously pampered and groomed fur.

It wasn't until he didn't come in for dinner the following day that the situation was noteworthy... he has never in all his six years missed two meals in a row.

But of course, I had to play down the fear factor when talking to the missus, because of the almost immediate, if barely held in check, panic which was evident there. In coming up with all the rational arguments of why he would be back and healthy within hours, to calm her down, I almost convinced myself of them.

It wasn't until, three days after disappearing, she found him sunning himself on the front lawn of our old house, and dragged him home hissing and scratching, that I realised how fully I'd conned myself that I was completely confident of his return.

Mr Chester never misses a meal. He always responds when you call his name, and he's very emotionally dependent on us. Mr Winton, on the other hand, can take us or leave us. They're a completely contrasting pair of cats. It was completely out of character for Mr Chester to disappear, and if I'm honest with myself, I was pretty certain something horrible had happened to him.

And really, I dreaded the thought that it might have.

But at no point did I get the chance to actually properly feel that dread. I know it was there, because I had terrible dreams while we didn't know where he was. There was just no way that I could show it, because I knew that the slightest show of concern on my part would probably give my lady's panic the foothold it needed and she'd freak out. It was a close thing anyway.

I know that this sounds like a drama over nothing... the reason I know that is because I said it to her enough times. If it had been Mr Winton, well, he disappears for days at a time, and then turns up again like he'd never left. But Mr Chester... well, he's a very delicate soul. It's difficult not to worry about him. Not unlike the missus.

It occurs to me now, the thought skittering across my mind, that I really have lost the thread of what I was trying to say. Ah, well, the cat is home, now. Panic over till the next tilling over of panic.