Sometimes I wonder if there is a sign above our door in a secret Catese script that declares the premises to be open house for felines.
Our latest infiltrator is a very pretty long haired calico by the name of Charlie. He is a handsome lad with long whiskers and floofy tail and has been strutting around our garden the past couple of weeks with Leo – his marmalade cohort ( and possibly sibling? – they are of similar age) like a pair of Regency dandies.
Our own three monsters are completely unperturbed by their presence. Perhaps because they are very young, or possibly that they are cool, calm kitties.
Now – the garden is one thing. But for the past week Charlie has been making repeated attempts to move in. Again aided and abetted by our own tribe.
The moment I leave a door or window open young Charlie is IN. Okay, let’s be clear, his ulterior motive is doubtless food. He makes a beeline for the bowls and scoffs whatever the residents have left at double quick speed – necking whatever is on offer like a starving tripe-hound.
On Saturday morning I went to call the mob in for breakfast and had four cats seated in a semi-circle around the back door, waiting patiently to be let in.
Dilly Dumpling (check); Betty Poop (check); Oberon (check), and Charlie…
Hang on a minute… Charlie Boy, you do not live here!
Now I have no objection to Charlie’s presence per se. He is very sweet natured, I have no objection to my own cats being sufficiently
laid back to accept his presence without objection.
But the fact remains he is NOT our cat!!!
This morning I popped round to the neighbour (they had handily put a house number on Charlie’s collar tag) and told her what was occurring – adding that I really was not complaining -that he is a lovely cat – I was only concerned that she might wonder where he was getting to – or think that we are encouraging him.
Cats have a habit of deciding where they will live so I suspect we shall have him moving in at least part time. I will continue placing him on top of the wall dividing gardens and telling him to go home.
Somehow I don’t think he is listening…
Jan Edwards 