Tooty at Twenty ‘The cat has had enough,' is winding down' you say as, for the fourth or fifth day in a row, she seeks out some new hiding place away from humankind: first under the bed then in the airing cupboard, then a sideboard drawer. Today it's somewhere else again. A strange place to go and die - in the small, round darkness of the Hotpoint, among all those knickers, bras and underpants. Maybe she wants to go back to the womb, to complete the cycle - like worn-out clothes that always return freshly warm and new. Turning in, you remind me she's for the Vet tomorrow - 'And whatever you do don't shut the Hotpoint door. Just like you to forget and spin-dry her.' All the same, I fall asleep in the big armchair watching the Late Night Film. When I come to I haven't forgotten her - tucked in her little pod, hatch half-open. I switch on the kitchen light to make sure but it's still night in there. I have to go down on all fours to listen to the blackness, to tell by her tiny purr she's still alive... ...and there she is light years away Floating in space behind a towel: cataleptic, a ravaged ball of fur imperceptibly breathing still. My mind at rest, I inadvertently close the door on her then quickly open it again. I put out Kit-e-Kat and water on the cold stone tiles then climb the stairs. Tonight, we'll sleep through her pain again, each in our own hermetic dark as we orbit together for one last time - compañeros of a score of years - space-trekkers in the long slow spin towards morning. Poem and illustration Alan Perry (Tooty is the one in the foreground, Dad, Mum, Cleo and Gypsy all captured by my dad in their front room)
Tooty at twenty(read the Alt text for short story)
Art and story by Alan Perry ©️2026 #alanperry #tooty #art #companion
