This week I have been ill. Before anyone incurs my wrath by mentioning ‘man flu’, let me reassure you that I have been properly poorly: the kind of thing that would stop even the most robust ox in his tracks and would have a lesser man arranging for last rites to be read. During this period I have, therefore, not surprisingly, spend an unusual amount of time in bed feeling sorry for myself. For a good amount of this time I have been kept company by our cat, Scud, who has been happy to fulfil the role of hot water bottle, curled up at my feet.
Thankfully, this morning the fever which has gripped me for the past several days subsided. The big scary dude with the scythe has withdrawn; the World Health Organisation can come down from its high alert status; I think I’m going to live. So, beginning to feel more human once again, I was able to drag my still-aching body from my bed at a more reasonable hour for some breakfast and a bit of light pottering around the house. Scud, however, stalwartly retained his position on the bed.
When I returned to the bedroom a short while later the sun was shining in through the window, the first opportunity it had had following several days of closed curtains, and Scud was led at full stretch in the sunshine with his head hanging off the end of the bed looking as contented as any creature has the right to be.
I was feeling sufficiently well to grab my camera to record the moment. Seeing me, Scud stretched in such a contented manner that he over-reached himself and fell off the bed. He did that thing that cats do in such moments: licked himself, looked at me as if to say “I meant to do that”, then leapt back up to resume the pose so I could get my shot.
Enjoy the look of a contented cat: it made me feel better.