Louis Catorze wasnβt on my bed when I woke up a couple of mornings ago. I went downstairs, made my usual pot of green tea and read my book, but there was a cat-shaped space on my lap where Catorze would ordinarily be. This was highly unusual.
When I took a cup of tea up to Cat Daddy, I asked him whether heβd seen Catorze. He hadnβt. And, even though I ought to know better, my mind played every horrible scenario imaginable, with a particularly unpleasant one taking centre stage.
This was it:
Cat Daddy and I drank our tea, listening out for the telltale βBa-doomphβ of Catorzeβs preposterously loud feet on the floorboards. But there was nothing. The only sound we could hear was a magpie going absolutely ballistic outside.
Just as we had decided to get out of bed, the little sod appeared, screaming himself senseless. And, as if by magic, the magpie fell silent at the same time. Coincidence?
Catorze has given us so many false alarms (this one was the worst one) and we still donβt seem to have learned our lesson. I shall keep repeating the following mantra until itβs imprinted on my brain:
βWE MUST NOT WORRY ABOUT SA MAJ UNTIL HE HAS BEEN MISSING FOR AT LEAST THREE DAYS, OR UNTIL A NEIGHBOUR REPORTS A DISTURBANCE, WHICHEVER COMES FIRST.β
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