I have always considered myself a dog person.
This information appeared to be of no interest whatsoever to the cats.
It actually began with the roosters.
They arrived quietly, scratched around the garden, ate the dirt and generally minded their own business. Every now and then they would appear with a wife or a handful of chicks, but they observed the unwritten rules of good neighbours. They came. They foraged. They left.
Then the cats discovered the address.
One morning I offered a sardine to a particularly persuasive visitor. I later named him Geronimo. He was an animated, permanently excited-looking tiger cat. It seemed like a harmless enough gesture. He looked hungry. I obliged. We both carried on with our day.
The following morning he returned.
This time he had brought his wife.
Within a matter of days the children appeared. Shortly afterwards came what I can only assume were the aunts, uncles and several distant relatives. At some point the patio ceased being my patio and became what appeared to be the permanent headquarters of a well-established committee.
My role also changed.
Without applying, interviewing or receiving any formal notification, I had somehow been promoted to Head Waiter.
There was no salary.
There were certainly no tips.
Only an increasing expectation that breakfast would be served promptly.
The remarkable part was their confidence. They slept on the outdoor furniture as though it had been reserved for them, occupied the patio table like directors attending a quarterly board meeting and regarded me through the patio doors with the quiet certainty of regular customers who knew precisely what time the restaurant opened.
Attempts to explain that I preferred dogs achieved nothing whatsoever.
The Committee remained unmoved.
Then came an unexpected regulatory development.
The Government introduced regulations concerning alien species, including the very guests who had enthusiastically adopted my garden.
It transpired that what had begun with a single sardine now sat awkwardly alongside legislation carrying maximum penalties of up to $500,000 and/or four years' imprisonment.
That seemed an unexpectedly robust response to breakfast.
It was, however, a useful reminder that small decisions have an alarming tendency to compound.
One sardine became two cats.
Two cats became a family.
A family became a committee.
A committee became potential regulatory exposure.
The roosters, meanwhile, brought along their wives, chicks and assorted relatives as well, but simply continued eating the dirt and watching events unfold with what I can only describe as quiet satisfaction.
Looking back, I still maintain that I never owned any cats.
The evidence, however, strongly suggests they adopted me.
The legislation, meanwhile, had quietly caught up with the Waiting Committee.
Apparently, hospitality can carry some remarkably serious consequences.
I decided it was probably time to retire from catering.
The roosters still eat the dirt.
The cats still conduct regular inspections of the patio.
I remain in compliance with Government regulations.
The Waiting Committee respectfully disagrees.
Proceeding Accordingly.
See-It-Deh!
Related Observations:
Am I being professionally inconvenienced by a hostile takeover I never approved?