This is Oberon.  He lives with us.  He’s beautiful.  He’s the most beautiful thing in this house.  He knows it.  Oberon likes being stroked; he likes being stroked by you.  Go on.  You know you want to.Oberon used to live with another family, that clearly didn’t make any kind of sense.  Luckily the fates (through the medium of my Kijiji trawling Papa) brought us together, as it was meant to be.  He didn’t really have a name so I call him Oberon, but that’s just his official title.  He’s also known as Pushkin, Professor Fluffy, Captain Meow, Big Cat and occasionally (by the less charitable and bearded among us) Fat Cat.  He rolls with it, as long as the strokes keep coming he doesn’t seem to mind.

If he were a Harvard Professor he’d be the sort that solves international crimes involving art and secret organizations bent on world domination and big swishy cloak wearing.  And yes he’d probably sleep with his students too, but dang it all you wouldn’t mind.  After all, on balance, breaking international crime syndicates really gives you a lot of leeway in the sleeping with people department.  That’s what he says anyway, and I trust him.

Within about 12 seconds he ruled my heart.  I mean, I know I’m a big sucker when it comes to oversized and intensely floofed chaps (yes Stephen, I am referring to you), but this guy really knows how to turn on the charm.  He’ll lie on the bed next to you, lie across your arm like a little fluffy teddy bear, tuck his head under your chin and purr.  It’s mind blowingly cosy.

This boy will snuggle right up with you, he’ll snuggle kids, me, Stephen, he’s not fussy.  He’ll snuggle you softly until you fall fast asleep to the sound of his purrs.

Then he’ll go downstairs and poo on the floor.

Which is why Oberon goes out at night.  Don’t worry, he snuggles first.  He picks a boy to cuddle with and stays there until we boot him out into the darkness each night. Out into the cruel world beyond the pillow, beyond the cushions, beyond the sofa.  That dark world of mystery and magic, of naughtiness and unseen doings.

And what does he get up to out there.  Nobody knows.  And we wouldn’t dare ask.  It’s possible he’s foiling the plans of the local chapter of the Illuminati whilst simultaneously riding a deer through the woods meowing “High ho Silver, away!”.  Or he could just be taking a very long bathroom break.  Or both.   We’re just glad when he returns each morning, settling down quickly for a good 18 hours of napping as quickly as possible.  It’s not a bad life.

So if you’re in the mood for some serious stroking for an hour or two his door is always open.  Just don’t knock too loudly, he’s probably asleep.