Scruff

I am who I am, and nobody is going to tell me otherwise.

I’m sitting in my favourite crabapple tree by the garden wall, watching the birds freak out about their visitor (me) and the clouds scud about while the sun tries to peek through. It’s spring; the sun’s losing this battle. I bat my eyelids and enjoy the occasional sunbeam’s warmth.

Miss Attitude from next door saunters along the pavement on the other side of the wall. She sees me, sniffs loudly, and turns right around.

“Don’t say hello, then,” I call after her. She straightens her back and ignores me. Wench.

Next to come by is The Postman. He’s late today. I shift in my tree nook. “Hi! How are you?”

He flinches as if he’s just seen me. “Oh hello, how’d you get up there?” I laugh at him. “You’re lively today. Just like a cat, climbing up trees. Careful you don’t fall out.”

I leap down in front of him just for that remark. All four paws at once. A graceful landing, if I say so myself. Fragrant apple blossoms fall around us. The Postman grabs his satchel close.

“I’m not going to bite your letters,” I complain, and trot past him to the front door. Mum’s inside, waiting for the newspaper and whatever else he’s brought. I head in and take the stairs two at a time, launching myself onto another limb at the top. This one’s the banister ledge. I perch on the polished wood, watching them below.

Eventually, Mum stops chatting and closes the front door. She spies me above her head and puts on a fake stony glare. “Get down, Scruffy. You’re not a cat.”

Whatever. I shake my tail at her. She’s lucky. I nipped the vet last week when he said I was a dog.

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I was reminded this week of the frivolity of May, especially in England where I grew up. Hope you enjoyed this snippet of fun as much as I did imagining it. Have a good week and thanks for dropping by!