when the cat, with more than a little disrespect, crawled up and stretched out next to him in the bed.
And just as many times the cat woke up when Ove, with more than a bit of brusqueness, booted it down to the floor again.
Now, when it’s gone quarter to six and Ove has got up, the cat is sitting in the middle of the kitchen floor.
It sports a disgruntled expression, as if Ove owes it money.
Ove stares back at it with a suspicion normally reserved for a cat that has rung his doorbell with a Bible in its paws, like a Jehovah’s Witness.
“I suppose you’re expecting food,” mutters Ove at last.
The cat doesn’t answer. It just nibbles its remaining patches of fur and nonchalantly licks one of its paw pads.
“But in this house you don’t just lounge about like some kind of consultant and expect fried sparrows to fly into your mouth.”
Ove goes to the sink. Turns on the coffeemaker. Checks his watch. Looks at the cat.
After leaving Jimmy at the hospital, Parvaneh had managed to get hold of a friend who was apparently a veterinarian.
The veterinarian had come to have a look at the cat and concluded that there was “serious frostbite and advanced malnutrition.”
And then he’d given Ove a long list of instructions about what the cat needed to eat and its general care.
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