This is in some danger of turning into a cat blog, although I stand by the statement that I made here that I am not a mad cat person, although I seem to be surrounded by them.
On Friday last week, Charley (the latest cat) escaped from his captivity in our front room.
I wouldn’t dare suggest that there was any contributory negligence on the part of “someone” (not me) who must have left the kitchen door slightly open. I can think of no other explanation for why this door was open and there was a space where Charley had been.
By the way, “someone” who isn’t me in this house leaves only one other candidate, Sue. But as I say, I wouldn’t suggest that she was responsible for the breakout.
Anyway, it wasn’t until Sunday that our neighbour, good friend and eater of cheese on toast, known for short as Tony, spotted a familiar ginger shape hanging around his garage while he was washing his car on the drive. He quickly passed on this intelligence to Sue who swooped on the unsuspecting cat and returned him to the food, my settee and the captivity of our front room.
He tucked into the food with some relish, obviously hungry from a couple of days back in his old ways of living rough and spent the rest of the day catching up on sleep and very probably dreaming of the next escape attempt.
In a normal story, this would be the end because the cat had been returned to the bosom of his new family and a period of imprisonment settling down would then ensue.
But not in our house.
Guess who had the great idea of not waiting for him to start wandering around wailing and looking under the settee for the tunnel?
Yes, it was the Brain of Bulwell 2009, Sue, who decided to let him out on Monday morning. This was just before the weather turned cold again, the rain and wind started and it became completely unfit for a husband to be dragged out down the street calling for a cat that doesn’t want to be found. No problem, the husband doesn’t go, but Sue has now widened her one-woman search party to the next street as well.
But it’s OK, he’s got a collar and a tag on with our address, so he will eventually be found.
Perhaps I should just keep out of it and let the local coven of mad cat women sort this out for themselves, but I am convinced that poor old Charley really needs a bit of male support here to convince him that captivity is for the best in the long run.
After all, it worked for me.