A couple of nights ago, Cat Daddy and I decided to go to our lovely local pub for dinner. It’s only at the end of our street – a short, 3-minute walk – so well within my diminished physical capabilities. Naturellement, as soon as we opened the front door to leave, Louis Catorze shot out like a speeding bullet and refused to be caught.
“Never mind,” I said. “We’ll only be an hour or two. He’ll just have to sit at The Front until we come back.”
Mais non: Louis Catorze had decided not only that he was coming with us, but that he would announce this fact very loudly to all within earshot.
“Oh dear,” I said, as we continued walking. “I’m sure he’ll shut up and go home in a minute.”
Mais non: the little sod continued to follow us, tail up, his screams ringing out embarrassingly through the street.
“Oh God,” said Cat Daddy. “He’d better not follow us all the way to the pub.”
Luckily, he didn’t: at that point, he decided to duck into a neighbour’s garden and carry on screaming.
Now, had that neighbour been an unknown person, we would have just left Sa Majesté to it, pretended we were nothing to do with him and kept walking, then picked him up on the way home. But, unfortunately, he happened to choose the house of someone whom we know quite well and who knows Catorze by sight. So, had they come out of their house to investigate the diabolical racket, it would have been shameful beyond words.
“We’re going to have to catch him and take him home, aren’t we?” said Cat Daddy. “And, seeing as you’re still not meant to be lifting things, I suppose I’m going to have to do it?”
So Cat Daddy marched back down the street to where Louis Catorze still sat screaming, scooped him up with one hand like a fairground claw machine grabbing a soft toy, and carried him home. Not much is funnier than the sight of a highly annoyed man striding purposefully down the street, cradling a tiny, floppy, screaming cat.
We know quite a few of our neighbours and are on good terms with them (so far). Thank goodness none of them witnessed this.