It's Still Life

The Cat Seeks a New Country
(Or: A Feline Defector’s Lament)

The cat sits before the telly,
tail wrapped tight with disappointment,
as Team GB slides — mostly sideways —
down a slope that looks suspiciously like
old woman’s garden after a bad storm.

“This,” he hisses,
“is embarrassing.
We don’t have snow.
We have damp.
Glorified drizzle.
You can’t ski on damp.
You can’t luge on puddles.
You can’t win medals
for excellent rain-watching.”

The Old Woman dunks a biscuit in her tea.
“It’s not our fault, cat.
Geography.”

“Geography,” he repeats,
as if the word offends him.
“I don’t care about geography.
I care about gold.
I propose we adopt a new country.
Somewhere with proper snow.
Somewhere that respects the sports
of falling with style.”

He produces — from where, she doesn’t ask,
a small, crumpled map.

“I’ve done research.
Norway? Too good.
Switzerland? Too neutral.
Canada? Too far,
and also too polite —
they’d apologise for winning.”

His paw lands on a spot.

“Sweden.
They have snow.
They have meatballs, and gravy.
They have crowns —
and I am royal, obviously.
I shall declare myself
a Swedish citizen.
From now on,
I cheer for them.”

He puffs out his chest.

“You may call me…
Knut.
Knut the Cat.
First of the Knuts,
adorer of Abba,
and future
connoisseur of pickled herring.”

The Old Woman hides her smile.
“And what about me?
The one who feed you?”

He pauses.
Considers.

“You may be… an honorary Swede.
On Wednesdays.
If the weather is nice.
And you provide
gravlax on demand.”

Then he settles back,
watching the Swedes glide gracefully downhill,
and murmurs:

“This is sport.
This is dignity.
This is what real snow
can achieve.”