This is his own little lease, specially for him. It says he is permitted to live here, no problem, but Must Not Soil the Garden (I suppose already being full up with soil). Chocolate is obedient. And he doesn’t want to get me thrown out. Probably because he couldn’t stand a second move. One is not permitted to pick him up, so imagine what fun it was getting him into a cat box. Took five hours. Even drugged as per instructions. My ex did it in the end, with a very large bath towel. Good job one of us had a brain. If the owner of the brain had been me, I would have set off from northern Scotland to Derbyshire at half past 3 instead of half past 8, with 8 hours' drive ahead. But much of the cat chase time had been spent walking innocently round the house, whistling a happy tune, pretending nothing odd was happening. Trying to lull the cat into accidentally walking past the open box at the critical moment. And I've told you about his secret razors.
There being no catflap at this establishment, things were fine once he stopped banging his head on the door, and I found a catlitter he could respect. Tiny compressed-sawdust rolls, a bit sharp on the paw but very environmentally appropriate, cut no ice. “No way am I standing on that.” Also realised I should move it from its place by the front door. Only a matter of time before the post hit him on the head. A life–damaging event. Psychiatric counselling for tray-related issues would be required. Neurotic enough already. (Why by the front door? Because he wouldn't walk to the back lobby. Made that quite clear by leaving a small puddle in the exact specified place in the corner of the hall. Said he needed to be able to get to it in a hurry, access from all rooms.) But frequently opening door to understairs cupboard keeps shoving the tray nearer to the letterbox. Predicament. Just means it's the first thing anybody sees when they visit, unless they use the back door, like I do. Which is closer to the gate anyway. Friends know this. Strange people I'd like to give a good impression to, don't.
Couple of months ago, I stayed at mother’s for one night, leaving him with his half–eaten food and a whole new second bowl. Plenty. When I came home the second bowl was still untouched. He was so well–behaved he hadn’t jumped up on to the kitchen counter where I’d left it. He never does. We are running a book on who is most stupid.
He’s so affectionate, I thought he might like a little kitten to look after. There were some in the nearby village going free to good homes. Would keep him occupied while I’m out, or asleep. Give him something else to wash besides my arm while I’m typing. He’s quite motherly. But then I heard him hearing me thinking. And I heard him mutter
“Told you. Thin End Of Wedge. Twenty cats.”
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