“The cat,” sobs Dulcie, dramatically and pointing with a gesture straight out of a hammy, amateur Shakespeare performance. 
“Has upsetted me. She has been looking at me meanly in the garden.” I’m at a bit of a loss as to the best way to respond. As far as I know, our cat has always looked either hungry or inscrutable, and she is currently sitting on the garden wall staring into space. But Dulcie is a sensitive soul, keen to weep like a silent movie heroine over any perceived slight, and ready to scream and wail if a Weetabix is presented not totally intact at breakfast. Her reaction to any light bump or knock suggests that she has a fine future as a star player for the Italian national football team.
Yet, she also has a slightly blood-thirsty side to her. “I will KILL you!” she fumes at an imaginary foe in the garden. And she seems impervious to any sentiment around eating delicious food that was very obviously a living creature not so long ago. “Ha ha, little fishy,” she croons to a whitebait. “I am going to munch your head off!” Himself the Elf is a bit of a tough-nut, banging into chairs and tables, and toppling over with monotonous regularity as he explores. Dulcie often greets his fairly restrained cries when he’s injured, or stuck, or become wedged under a piece of furniture, with utter indifference or scorn. “You silly baby! You don’t know what you’re doing, do you?” I try to suggest we offer Himself the Elf some sympathy, but Dulcie still seems to have a fairly flinty heart where his woes are concerned. Which is why I’m not surprised that she has a taste for slightly macabre literature and a liking for the frankly strange The Crows of Pearblossom. Continue reading
thelionthewitchandthebookcase 