Hi, I’m the Hand-of-God. So called because I was born with a hand-outline, two hairs wide, on my back. But which was only my second name. At the cattery they called me Zorro.
The hand is hard to see now because I grew, and grew, and expanded and the hand expanded too, and became a blob.
Which is how the ignorant old woman now looking after me, calls it.
Hand-of-God? she says. You wish! Go on! I dare you go do something that God told you needs doing.
She obviously doesn’t know God is another name for Life, or Nature, if you’re pernickety like she is.
That night I hunted and ate all the cockroaches in the house. If that isn’t nature, what is?
What else can a Hand-of-God do locked up in an old house?
Rita de Heer 