It wasn’t raining at the time although the grass was sopping wet but this didn’t deter Michelin Man, fattest cat in all Fat Cat City (I understand his owners call him
Pussums). As I looked out the back door MM was bellying along ever so slowly, attention riveted on a nondescript grey bird pecking around in leaf litter 10 metres away. I eased the door open and hurled a tennis ball at his ample rump. A satisfying plop told
me I’d found my mark.
MM leapt away towards the gap beneath the gate, paused to gesture rudely with a forepaw before undergoing a tight squeeze and streaked away to where people call him Pussums
and don’t bounce balls off his overly-padded posterior.
The nondescript grey bird was still present although it had withdrawn to the comparative safety of a shrub. A few moments later it was back in the leaf litter. I turned
to She-Who-Must-Obey and requested my binos. When I glassed the bird I positively identified it as a female Golden Whistler so don’t need to ask about Canberra’s- most-asked-about this time.
John Layton
HOLT
