Downton Tabby (2 page)
Authors: Chris Kelly
I
N HIS MAGISTERIAL, UNFINISHED WORK,
Vom Kriege,
Carl von Clausewitz wrote that in war everything is simple, but even the simplest thing is difficult. (And there are people who say Germans aren’t funny!)
In British high society, this rule—the simplest thing is difficult—was also true about getting dressed, taking a walk, or asking someone to pass the breadsticks.
In the morning of the twentieth century, the rules of etiquette for the manor born—dictating the subtle nuance of gesture and drawing the thin line between what was done and what was not—were more byzantine than a software contract with a leprechaun.
But the basics, for cat and man, were simple, and the same:
Never do anything for yourself that someone else can do for you.
Communicate disapproval with a withering glare.
Communicate affection with a withering glare.
Get fed.
Groom.
Sleep.
Groom.
Loaf in a decorative and highly charming manner.
Get fed.
Sleep.
Repeat.
If you absolutely must go outside, kill birds.
It was their world. We just lint-rolled it.
Hungry, Sleepy, Clean
