Our cat-hating neighbour – an elderly lady who ignored our friendly attempts at neighbourliness for 4 years, but has decided to be nice to us now that we’re leaving – came round yesterday evening, concerned about foxes in the area and asking if we’d seen them around. Had I let Cat Daddy do all the talking, he would probably have said something embarrassing like, “Never seen any, but we know they’re around because their noisy sex sessions keep us awake at night,” so I hurriedly spoke over him and just said no.
“They use my garden as a lavatory, you know,” our neighbour snarled. “Bloody awful things. I was looking out of my kitchen window one evening and I saw this huge black lump, squatting over my lavender.”
Of course, Louis Catorze chose that very moment, having spent all day in La Cage, to come out and meow at her. Then he rolled at her feet, stretched out and put his claws into her shoes.
“Erm … it was definitely a huge black lump and not a small one, right?” asked Cat Daddy.
Another awkward silence. Louis Catorze then sniffed her shoes and nuzzled them. Then he rolled over, defiantly displaying his arse as if to say, “Oui, and there’s more where that came from, salope!”
“Isn’t it funny how cats always go the person who isn’t a cat person?” said Cat Daddy.
Yet another icy silence, and a look from our neighbour which suggested a distinct lack of amusement. Crickets chirped, tumbleweed blew past.
“Anyway,” I said, hastily. “Your roses are looking nice.”