Kittens. It’s a cliche, I know. But yes, kittens. Purr, meow, soft fur and big eyes. Much more appealing than the stainless steel and unexpected ‘CLANK!’ of the mouseomatic.
And yes, I did say kittens. Laura hates cats. She says they stink. She can’t understand how people can live with cat hair, can leave their house covered in it. She thinks cats are ugly, and hates the way they’ll sit in the comfiest chair, level you with a look then dismiss you with a turn of their head.
That’s why I thought it was safe to send her in to pick the kitten up. I thought she was taking her time and was getting quite worried, but after twenty minutes she emerged cradling something wrapped in a blanket like a newborn baby. ‘It took a long time to catch it,’ she explained, tenderly placing it in my arms before adding ‘I’ll go get the other two’ then disappearing back into the bungalow.
Driving back, three tiny heads half the size of your hand poking out of tightly wrapped blankets, I tried to extract information. The Mission: select and acquire a female kitten that is litterbox trained and used to children. The Reality: we have three kittens of unknown age or sex, rescued from the old peoples home where this girl worked and judging by the mess on their lino with no idea about crapping in a box.
They are cute though. That’s why I got up at half five, tiny ‘mews’ emitted from their safe haven beneath the woodstove beckoning like sirens on rocks.
Secretly I love kittens. There’s not much meat on them but they make such comfy gloves…