“Ten.” (26 June 2016)


Post-dessert (and Post-Brexit) Blackie jumps up on my lap. He circles around listlessly, sets up a steady beat of stomach kneading, and finally looks up into my face in a wordless wide-eyed glare.

What do you want? I ask, stroking his black mohawky fur.

He clings a bit to my shirt, unsure. And then, in the absence of having any kind of sensible answer, he throws his head back and yowls, long, loud and slow.

Is Blackie a punk rocker, whose “ideas [are] espoused, shouted and blasted through power chords, distortion and breakneck drumming“?


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