“That white thing is going to eat me,” the Chap declares upon meeting the Christmas cat. Newly arrived, a rescue, Frankie has slunk into an avowedly dog home, all milky mercury as she threads among us, leaping onto windowsills, toppling book stacks and padding across the laptop’s keyboard while attempts are made, in distracted vain, to write in the blare of summer’s heat.
Confession: we are besotted. Gazing in wonder at the new arrival among us and all her servants now. Yet one remains unmoved. The Chap. On the dog’s side. He says he already has a cat in his life – his teenage daughter – and one is enough.
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