4
PATRICIA FEATHERBOTTOM
When I was six my father brought home a kitten, which I named
Patricia Featherbottom. I loved that cat, but Jordan would not go
anywhere near her.
“Oh Jordan, my little cabbage, kittens don’t bite,” Mother told him,
but little Jordan didn’t want anything to do with her, on account of his
lifelong fear of tails. When Patricia Featherbottom was a kitten, she
would climb up to my lap and curl up, looking for warmth (I was the
warmest child in Caterham). Patricia Featherbottom was brown with
white stripes and she was beautiful, like a swan before its life is cruelly
cut short by fire. Muncho loved Patricia Featherbottom too, but he
feared her. Patricia Featherbottom could sense his presence. The first
time I carried her, she kept sniffing and then she jumped on my
shoulder, scaring Muncho who dashed for safety.
“Patricia Featherbottom can see me? Patricia Featherbottom can
see me!”
Muncho’s words were a mixture of fear and excitement:
fexcitement. He was glad someone else apart from me could see him
but it also scared him. Luckily there was little that Patricia
Featherbottom could do to Muncho since she was only a kitten. I was
the only one who played with her, which meant that whenever I was
with her, Jordan and Muncho stayed far away. I remember once
Mother bought me an ice cream, and then got mad because I shared it
with Patricia Featherbottom.
“Josh pumpkin! What are you doing? That’s disgusting!” Mother
screamed. I screamed. We all screamed.
Patricia Featherbottom also slept with me at night, which worried
Jordan and Muncho.
“Patricia Featherbottom can’t stay in the same room as us,”
Jordan complained.