My mother, too, told a tale of a sensitive cat.
When my parents were first married, they lived in the old house where my father had been born. Mom always disliked it. It was creepy, she said.
It was gas-lit, and you had to put money in the meter. If the
gas ran out and you didn’t have any sixpences or shillings, you had to sit in the dark.
Mom was often alone in the evening, when Dad
worked late. She would sit reading on the sofa, with her cat, Tiny, who lay on her lap for hours, purring. But when the gas sputtered out, Mom said, and it was instantly dark,
Tiny jumped from her lap and ran under the sideboard, squeezing herself right to the back, cowering against the wall.
A cat, scared of the dark? You can imagine how my
mother felt, as she groped for her purse and scrabbled for a sixpence. Quite often she didn’t have a sixpence, and had to sit in the dark, wondering what had frightened the cat…
Other things happened in that house that made her
like it even less… but that’s for another blog.