Following the mouse incidents of the past few weeks, where Peppa brings in a friendly, dead rodent for us to admire and congratulate her on her work ethic, my sleep brain has become attuned to cat shenanigans.
If I hear cat shenanigans, it rouses me from my slumber. It then allows me a moment to lie in bed listening to cat shenanigans before urging my limbs to take me, in very much the style of the Wrong Trousers, to the source of the shenanigans. Primarily to remove any rodentia that I may find before Carole gets up and screams the place down at six in the morning.
Last night was one such night.
Shenanigans were heard.
But there was no mouse.
It was a fracas of the highest order, fought out on two sides of cat flap with Peppa absolutely twatting the flap so as to drive away her – presumably – feline opponent on the exterior of the door.
I didn’t see the opponent.
I just hung around for the bitch slapping of the cat flap. A more awake me would have been lying on the floor in front of the cat flap, shining a torch through to see who was there. But I was not that awake. I was just relieved to not be taking a mouse to the bin at some ungodly morning hour while, undoubtedly, our weird neighbour smoked outside because it’s the only time it’s really peaceful.
Took me a while to get back to sleep, though. There’s a part of you, after a kerfuffle like that, that wonders what exactly will happen when that other cat works out it could just pop through the cat flap and the fight takes place in the house.
Like that time a ginger cat just walked through the front room while we were watching TV…