And now here he stands, looking at the cat. And the cat looks back. And Ove remains strikingly nondead. It’s all incredibly irritating. A half-dozen times Ove woke up in the night 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.
What do You think about A Man Called Ove: A Novel?
