I was at work yesterday, through the afternoon and into the evening.
Carole started sending me pictures, and a little video, of a small cat, maybe kitten, that was outside our back door and really looked like it wanted to come in. It was bloody gorgeous. And we all know the rules establish by Carole’s sister, Lorna – if a cat comes close enough to your home that it may as well be inside then you can just have it. That’s the way cats work.
And a couple of weeks ago, nice next door told me about a cat that sat outside the cat flap clearly wanting to get in.
I assume it must be the same one.
Fate is bringing us the fabled Pickle. I mean, that’s the only possible explanation.
So, excitedly, I look out for it all day today. Or as much of today as I can. I go in the shed for stuff. I assume it must be living in the shed. This ticks the boxes on Lorna’s “How To Own A Cat” checklist. If it lives in your outbuilding then it’s as good as yours. No sign of it.
I check again later. Nothing. Later still. Still nothing.
Why does everyone else see the cat and not me. Carole fed it a little bit yesterday, so I mean it has our food in it, so it clearly belongs to us now (as per Lorna’s cat rules again), but more than that hopefully its meal yesterday will entice it back.
Just apparently not when I – the one who will most definitely try and pick it up (that practically releases the balloons on the “You Now Own A Cat” phase of Lorna’s rules) – am around to see it.
I have a few quality hours tomorrow. I might sit on the doorstep with a can of tuna.
You know, as you do.