Mr. Button.

Happy Monday to you,


So, how are you!

I am fine, thank you!


Yesterday we were lucky that the rain stayed away and we managed to actually get into the garden and do some very necessary tidying up.

My task was to pick up and bag the deep drifts of well crisped brown leaves, donated by my kind neighbour, via his outstandingly huge Sycamore tree which borders our own little bit of heaven.


It was while I was doing this that I first saw Benjamin.


I happened to glance up in time to see a small white face peeping around one side of the hole in our fence, which was caused by the recent winds blowing away a section.


It was a large, but thin, black and white tomcat, who was looking curious but ready-to-bolt-at-any-second.

As I spoke to him he began to make loud noises before trotting across to me.


He had no collar and was quite bony, with some missing fur between his back legs, but what made me decide that he was possibly a stray, were his huge balls.

Normally, most owners have their male cats neutered in order to stop them peeing on things and to somewhat curtail their instincts to roam far from home and be missing for long periods.


I was therefore very careful about touching him in case he decided to take exception to it.

But no, he totally revelled in being petted, becoming ever more vociferous about it.


Soon, I borrowed Big H’s keys and went home to get him something to eat.

I brought back some milk, a dish, a tin opener and a tin of tune chunks.


He sniffed the bowl of milk and the opened tin of tuna and looked at me as if I was mad, so I just left it and got on with picking up leaves, being interrupted at intervals by the noisy creature who wanted a bit more attention from me.


When Big H finally felt not-very-well, I went to pick up the food and found that half of the milk was gone, along with almost half of the fish.


I also noticed that the cat was also issuing softer and more throaty noises …. possibly because he was full!


I had been calling him Stinkypants, for want of knowing his proper name, if any.

It was at that point that I decided he would be called Benjamin Button …. or Mr. Button …. because Big H thought he was an old cat and I thought he was a relatively young Tom, in full vigour.


I think that I am actually the person who is right because when I was young our unclipped Tomcat, called Whiskey, used to go courting for days on end and became more tattered and torn as the years passed.

Big H, however, only had a little dog, as his mum did not like cats.

So, that makes me the expert!!!


When we had to leave I could still hear him in the garden, so it may not be the last I see of Mr. Button.

Next time I go there I shall take the rest of the carton of milk, and some cat food, ‘cos you never know.


Hoping your day contains a friendly pussy or two as well!






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