Sitting, bent forward at the waist, her black legs stretched akimbo, toes pointing upwards and outwards. Her stomach lay exposed, dark against a lush creamy cloud of eiderdown. A rare revelation of that soft, curly white fur nestling secretly within the warm black of her lower belly stirred my soul. Sometimes she lets me rest my cheek there, for a moment. She smells faintly of earth.

Then she began washing the insides of her knees again; as if they needed it. Lengthy industrious licks, combing methodically: capturing black hair at its dense furry roots; releasing fine fluffy tips. Occasionally she interrupted her stroking with a tiny nibble on the bone, a heel, then resumed with a satisfying long lick, combing fur with the rough tip of her tongue. She wasn't giggling; it's a serious business washing knees. Instead she was concentrating hard, half hypnotised. I wondered what she could taste.

Finally finished washing, she flopped over onto one side and stretched all four limbs out in front of her, go-faster fur sticking out between the pads on her paws. She looked up from her cosy nest, round hunter's eyes framing a leonine velvet nose. Her thin black lips were smiling. Life would be so much simpler if I was a cat.

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