A Siamese cat sat on the clock, like a cross-eyed owl, and the Siam, sticking his head in the door, shared his observations on the operation of the mechanism.

However, the village did not need additional evidence that we did not have all the houses. Evidence for three years has accumulated enough. In particular, in the mornings, when we have to leave early, I rush along the road in a dressing gown with a cat basket in my hand and bark incessantly. I take the basket because it is physically impossible to carry two Siamese in my arms, writhing like mad eels. Then if I manage to catch up with them, Sheba goes home in a basket, and Solomon, tearfully lamenting that It was on This Morning He Wanted to Be a Horse, hangs like a sack on my back. I bark because I (sometimes) manage to convince them that a dog is running around somewhere, and then they stop. And I'm wearing a dressing gown because I have to rush after them as soon as they disappear, and by the time I finish dressing, they will already be walking merrily in the neighboring village.

Explaining all this to neighbors is a waste of time. They just think we're crazy. So did the two hikers I once appeared to in a Tarzan-like robe from the forest. I can still see their faces as I slid down the steep, muddy path, desperately clinging to branches to keep my feet, and slid the last few yards on my buttocks covered in pajama bottoms. I explained that I was looking for a Siamese cat. And it didn’t help matters at all that just at that moment two Siamese cats came out of our gate with a careless graceful gait and inquired in a tone of mournful amazement why on earth I was sitting on the road, and they had been waiting for me in the garden for a long time.

The same thing happened when Sheba, walking on the ridge of the roof after the rain, slipped on the wet tiles and was frightened half to death. No one came to see what had happened, while she sat on her horse, petrified with horror, and cried out to Charles to save her, and Solomon howled sympathetically to her on the lawn, and every line of his triangular dark muzzle spoke of the worst forebodings. There was no one to help us, when finally, making sure that she really would not come down from there herself, we somehow dragged a long ladder up the slope behind the cottage, and from there threw it onto the roof. But as soon as Charles got there and sat on his skate, the valley suddenly teemed with curious spectators. Old Adams on his way to the public house, riding school students out for a morning workout, and a Boy Scout troop arriving by bus for a field trip. Again, there was no point in explaining why he was there. By this time, Sheba herself calmly descended from the roof and merrily chased Solomon on the lawn.

Of course, one cannot expect anything else from Siamese cats, but all this is not in vain. Three years ago I didn't have a single gray hair. Well, and Charles ... While I was finishing this last chapter, he again rolled down the stairs.

And yet we would never part with them. To imagine a cottage without Siamese cats is now as impossible as before - without a squirrel. When я пишу эти строки, они спускаются с холма. Sheba prints a step forward, her blue paws stepping confidently and firmly, as if she were a sergeant of a female auxiliary unit on a parade. Solomon trudges behind, sometimes stopping to sniff a daisy or look over his shoulder for anything interesting, and then runs to catch up with her on long skinny dark legs. Another minute and they'd be flying up the stairs, stopping side by side in the doorway, and staring at me suspiciously as if it was me and not them who had left the ball on the stairs for Charles to step on. So let—even Charles, who is carefully soaking his bruises in the bathtub with cold water, says that he completely agrees with me—let them stay the same longer.

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