Empathy for Brexit leavers

Boris, the girl cat with a boy name

The other night, walking alone, a bit tipsy, on the last stretch home, I encountered Boris, one of my cat-friends. Boris often appears from behind a wall, walks beside me keeping pace as I make my way back. And he always stops at the first crossing. Never abruptly. He fluidly turns, making his way back to his wall. Because this is the boundary of his territory. His impasse. Not this time though. Not on this night. ‘Goodbye, Boris,’ I said. But he didn’t stop. ‘Be careful of the road…’ but we were already travelling across it together. We reached the pavement. New ground for Boris. But he seemed pretty confident. Then it struck me. We can go all the way together! But this was just a bleary, barely-lit fantasy. Wasn’t it. I kept walking. Boris kept walking. Sometimes striding ahead. Sometimes lagging behind. Sometimes, stopping to lick the radiator of a car. ‘Boris’ I quietly pressed, peppering these whispered insistences with wordless noises of encouragement, firm-handed strokes. Now I was determined. I’d hardly wished it possible. But this was what I wanted. Here he was, still. A comrade. Moving with me, on my otherwise lonely mundane passage.

 We made it to my gate. This was it. What was my plan once we crossed the threshold? I didn’t know. Was it right to have brought him so far east? So far-right of his territory. Frankly, I didn’t care. It was getting here that mattered and we’d walked, side-by-side, all the way.

 I turned for a moment. Put my key in the door. Flashed back round.

 The bastard had gone.