Every morning when my wife, Dor the Store, ambles into the kitchen for the mug of coffee that kickstarts her day, there they are at the window, standing erect on a ledge, looking in, all ears and eyes focused on her every movement. The three heads move in unison like tennis spectators as she moves to the fridge, takes out the bowl of bonemeal, moves to a counter, shapes little balls smaller than a grape, then drops them one by one out on to the ledge. Each is snapped up by a mongoose which rushes into the nearest bush to feast in peace before returning for the next handout – maximum three.
A few days ago we learned the cost of familiarity. Dor the Store had left a packet of frozen chicken parts on a counter to defrost for supper. From the living room we heard a light thump but thought nothing of it, a pot lid had fallen maybe. When she returned to the kitchen the plastic bag had been neatly sliced open and a large drum – my choice for supper – had gone. So would the rest have had we not come in the nick of time.
To be continued/- Friday 12 December.