There was the odd bit of variety, I suppose, but all of it familiar. Comfortable.
For instance, sometimes, if I was feeling energetic, for a while I might chase a ball or my catnip toy – elegantly, of course – or a moth. And if I felt the need for an adventure, it was easy to follow Mum and Dad into the garden to smell the flowers and chew the grass.
In fact, the biggest adventure I ever had was the time I hid under the house (because squeezing into small places is fun, right?). I thought it was a game, but apparently it took Mum and Dad a while to catch on. Even then, it turns out they’re rubbish at hide and seek because they could not find me. I could hear them calling, but they never even got anywhere close.
(Then I discovered – too late – that I was a bit stuck, and I had to meow really loudly to call them to me. It was dark and cold and I was hungry and lonely. I do not recommend it as a fun game for all the family.)
The point is, I never even dreamed about going any further than under the house. Why would I need to, when everything I wanted was right here at home?
But that was before Gobi.
The thing about Gobi is, everyone thinks she’s fantastic. Special. A miracle of dog-kind.
(I think it’s because of the book all about her. People think if you’ve had a book written about you, you’re important. But of course, Dad wrote that book, not Gobi. If Gobi had actually written the book, maybe I’d have been more impressed.)
I’m not denying that Gobi has led a more varied life – more adventures, more trouble, more chaos.
I mean, yes, she ran through the Gobi Desert with Dad when he was doing his ultramarathon there, a few years ago. I suppose that takes some sort of talent. Dad’s always talking about the training it takes, the physical and mental strength, that sort of thing. And I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t want to do it. So, okay, we can give Gobi some sort of credit for running long distances.
And yes, okay, she also survived getting lost in China, after the race was done, before Dad could bring her home. Mum and Dad were so, so worried about her. Nobody knew where she was or what had happened to her. Of course, at that point, Mum and I hadn’t met her, we’d only seen photos, but somehow it already felt like we knew her. Some people say she ran away, but I know the truth, even if Gobi doesn’t like to talk about it. Somehow she kept herself alive until Dad could find her again.
That’s how Gobi got famous – when Mum and Dad started a campaign on the Internet to find her and bring her home. It worked, sort of, even if she couldn’t come home immediately because of some stupid rule about where and when pets can travel. Still, I suppose Dad wouldn’t have spent all those months in China with her if she wasn’t a bit important. Or been so excited when they were finally allowed to come home and we were suddenly a family of four, instead of three.
Lots of other people were excited too, it seems, as many of them wrote to tell us how happy they were for us.
Really? Fan mail? For a dog? She can’t even read!
(Neither can I, yet, but I imagine it’s only a matter of time before that skill comes to me. Most things do – I’m a very accomplished cat.)
The worst part about having Gobi in our lives isn’t the fans, though. The worst part is Mum and Dad: they adore Gobi.
Before Gobi came, they talked to me, or about me. I was the centre of their world, and I liked being there. I knew exactly how important I was.
Until Dad met Gobi.
Now, they’re always talking about how special Gobi is, how strong and brave, how well behaved. And they keep taking her on new adventures – without me.
In fact, Gobi goes on adventures with them every single day. A walk along the street or into the countryside with Mum and Dad, leaving me to watch them disappear from the window. Or sometimes, they go even further. I hear them talking about planes and ferries and distant lands and cities I’ve only seen if Dad’s watching TV when I’m trying to talk to him.
Sometimes, Gobi even appears on the TV. That’s the worst! Mum comes and grabs me to make me watch, like I want to see my sister doing all these things I could never get to do. The furthest I’ve got to an adventure is being allowed out along the side of the road on my harness on a long car trip to somewhere else. I’ll sit behind a window and watch other people adventuring.
My whole life, I’ve watched the world through windows. That’s what I do, you see. I’m a Ragdoll cat, and Ragdolls are indoor cats, so mostly I stay indoors. (Sometimes I venture as far as the garden, or in the car on a harness if Mum and Dad have to drive a long way away.) I watch the outside world go by, but I’m not supposed to want to be out there too. Not supposed to imagine what might be beyond the window frame. And until Gobi arrived, that was fine by me.
But now … now, sometimes I can’t help but wonder what else might be out there. What draws Dad and Mum and Gobi out on their adventures? After all, what’s the point of all the adventuring that other animals and humans do? I mean, they wouldn’t do it if it wasn’t important, or fun, right? So, I wonder. And I imagine.
What would my life be like if I was an outdoor cat, instead of an indoor one? If I went further than the garden wall one day? If, instead of hiding under the house, I went out beyond it?
Especially on the nights when Gobi steals my prawns, or gets excited and knocks me over, or even starts nibbling my tail. The nights when I remember what it was like when there were only three members of our family, and I was the most important one. I wonder what would happen if I decided to have an adventure.
But Ragdoll cats aren’t made for the outside.
Or so I always thought.
The trees outside my window were blooming with spring blossoms the day I first got the idea for my own adventure. I remember, because I liked chasing the blossoms in the garden when they fell. They were light and fun and they floated along on the breeze, filling me with excitement.
Normally, anyway.
This year, I just watched them blow over the garden wall into the great outdoors beyond, and felt depressed that I couldn’t follow them. So, I stayed inside instead, turning my back on the window and ignoring them.
Mum and Dad were talking about Gobi, again, and I was sort of half listening, half playing with a ball of fluffy hair (my own, of course) that had formed under the kitchen table.
‘Well, if they want to interview you with Gobi, why don’t we all go?’ Mum said, sounding totally reasonable. ‘Make a holiday of it. It would be nice to go back to China with you both.’
I glanced up at them. They were all going away this time? Last time Dad was in China, he was gone for months.
Already, I didn’t like this plan.
Dad had his long legs stretched out under the table, but his expression wasn’t nearly as relaxed as his position. ‘I don’t know. Is it wrong that just taking Gobi to China again makes me feel nervous?’
Of course it did – look at all the trouble she’d got into the last time she was there. Maybe they should stop letting Gobi out on adventures altogether, I thought. That might solve the problem.
And I wouldn’t feel so left behind.
‘She’s not going to get lost again this time, Dion,’ Mum said, soothingly. ‘Besides, if we’re all there together, we can look after each other.’
‘I suppose.’ Dad still didn’t look convinced. I brushed up against his legs to remind him of my existence. It worked. ‘What about Lara?’ he asked, sitting up straight so I could jump