I live alone with my cat, so of course, he doesn’t know who looks after him.

For starters, his name is Lazarus.  And Fuzzy Face.  And Hey Stupid.  And Sweetheart.  And Bloody Shift.  And Get Your Tail Out Of My Face.

He knows the white thing on the wall is called “Hello Sandy Speaking” because that’s how I greet it each time it makes a ringing noise.  He knows it is also called “Oh Shit”.  He knows his food is called “Come And Get It” because that is what I call it as I place it on the floor, though he may think it is just another feline name designed to confuse him.

But who am I?

I am a pair of feet that are good for him to walk in between.  I am a pair of legs for him to scratch while I’m peeling prawns.  I am a lap for him to sit on if I manage to beat him to the best seat in the house.  I am a pair of hands that stroke his fur in the right direction (usually), or remove him from the best seat in the house.  I am the voice in the night that calls his name to remind him of bedtime.  I am a head that needs to be nudged from the pillow so that he can sleep more comfortably in our bed.  I am the stomach that makes a great landing platform when he jumps from the back of the couch or up onto the bed.

The sum of all these parts is the whole person who occasionally needs to be chastised for staying out late, thereby neglecting him.  I am also the person who abuses him dreadfully by locking him into a bag, putting him into my car, and taking him to a bloke in a white coat who does all manner of unspeakable things to him.

But who is this whole person?

If there were other people living here, my cat would have a few alternative names for me, as I have for him.  He could think of me as Mum, Sandy, Grandma, Oy You, or Mrs Parkinson.  At the moment he calls me Miaow.  (I wonder what Miaow means?  Is it the feline version of Mummy, or does it just mean Oy You?  Could it mean simply Get Up Off Your Butt And Let Me Out?  I’ll never know.)

Maybe I’ll have to grab another husband, so that my cat will have a name for me.  He’d have a choice of Sandy, Darling, Shit-For-Brains, etc., but it’s a lot of trouble to go to just to acquire an identity for a cat!  Yet I can’t see him responding to me prodding my chest, saying “Me Mum”.

What’s the answer?  I don’t think there is one.  It’s just another quiet little tragedy, one faced by millions of lonely people, that I can live for years with my pet, and he doesn’t know who I am.