My Week with Moo, Part 1

Having a Mooment

My housemate arrived home on Sunday evening with his boyfriend, from a day out cycling in Cambridgeshire, just as my boyfriend and I were wheeling a suitcase out of the flat.

"Where are you off to?" they asked.

"Off to cat sit in West London."

"Say hi to West London," they smiled. 

And it really is West London — deep, far away West London, past Richmond Park, nearly an hour and a half on the Overground plus two bus rides, in the little known enclave of St Margarets (last night, on the train platform, four friends embraced and one of them quipped in a very East London manner: "ok, where the hell are we.") 

All this traveling to take care of a cat called Moo. I've heard a lot about Moo via Facebook. His guardians, Jane and Andrew, took him in after their previous cat, a sleek black panther-like  killing machine called Grufus left home one evening and never came back. Jane's Facebook has become a veritable chronicle of Moo's exploits, and so I decided I'd add to it by documenting my time with him.

Moo is everything Grufus was not: cow-like in appearance and gaze, jumps on everything and knocks everything down, gets between you and the dishes when you are washing them, follows you like a puppy, gets confused outdoors and ends up at the front door, crying for you to let him in and, in the evenings, climbs in bed with you and lies on your neck.

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