Some of you might be wondering where I’ve been this past week so I’ll just get straight to it – I’ve been in hiding. It wasn’t my choice, in fact I had no choice at all, truth be told. The seclusion was forced upon me thanks to an incident of such monumental embarassment, I don’t think I can ever show my furry face again. At the very least, I am hoping my owners return next week to tell me they’ve decided we’re all going to Brazil permanently. A new country, a new home, a new chance to establish and enjoy the kind of upwardly mobile social status I should be enjoying right here. But my life has been ruined by this idiot of a sitter who doesn’t have the first idea about the importance of appearances and how to conduct oneself this side of the river.
It all happened early last week. I’d miaowed down her door at 6am sharp, which I’d thought was rather generous of me as she looked like she could do with a lie-in. After breakfast and a quick tour of the garden frightening a few squirrels, I loped back inside to see if any play time might be on the agenda, and it was then that I saw it, ‘it’ being the most hideous, social pariah-making vessel of transport I’d ever seen. A pink and white spotted plastic bag on wheels I originally presumed was being used for simple internal storage purposes but which, it quickly transpired, was being prepared for external, public, interactive use.
I have a limited understanding of humans, obviously, but my sitter likes to stand in front of me and describe in minute detail what her plans for the day are, as though it is a conversation I can take part in. She asked if I wanted to “have a ride around the garden” in this horrible contraption – a request I loudly declined. She then tried to put me on top of the damn thing so she could take a picture but, short of nailing my paws to it, that was about as likely as that football team of hers winning the League. She did manage one shot, but I hid my face like a paparazzi pro and buggered off to the shed roof.
But then I saw her walking outside with it! Down the drive, out onto the street and up to the village! Oh my GOD! If she was heading to Birkenhead, then I could just about get away with it because none of my friends live there and there would be a chance no-one would see her. But Oxton Village!? I was mortified. How could she do this to me? It meant she’d be walking past Bert’s house, which I’d never hear the end of. Worse, she’d also be passing Delilah’s mansion on Christchurch Road. Delilah is a Grade-A queen bitch who thinks she owns the whole of Oxton just because her house has a name, not a number. She always sits on her garden wall, spitting at anyone who dares to pass, and she even tried to get me banned from Cabal Cats once when I had a slight fur infection, saying only beautiful cats should be allowed in. Which is hilarious, when you consider how ugly she is.
Sure enough, after just 30 seconds, I heard the distinct laughter of Lilli-Belle on Kings Mount. Lilli-Belle is a bit of a tart, who sometimes get mistaken for me just because she’s black. It’s quite fitting that she lives on Kings Mount because she loves nothing better than lying on the pavement, her legs spread, waiting for some tom, any tom, to come and give her attention, and it’s no coincidence that her house has a red light in the porchway. So to hear her cackling her amusement as my stupid sitter flounced up the road with that damn trolley, made me die a little bit inside.
By midday, there was already a choir of cats congregating by the shed wall, laughing, mocking, their words cruel, abrasive and utterly without mercy. I thought Bert, at least, might stand by my shoulder but, typical bloke, he sided with the bullies instead and left me high and dry. When the sitter returned, I was even more distraught to see her taking her time to lift the trolley up the steps and into the house. It was full of stuff (and nothing for me, by the way) and she was in no hurry to unpack any of it. Instead, she just sat in the conservatory with a glass of wine, the trolley on full display to the entire garden which, by now, was completely surrounded by every cat in Oxton, Birkenhead, Wallasey and Prenton (or so it seemed).
Since then, I’ve been practically housebound. I’m just too ashamed to go out and the longer it goes on, the worse it gets. There was some respite a few days ago when one of the sitter’s friends came round to stay for a couple of days. I got lots of attention, which is no more than I deserved, but then things got a little weird when they started dressing up as unicorns and fairies and other such nonsense. I mean, where did they think they were, Narnia? Sometimes you just don’t realise what you’ve got until you’re faced with a horrible alternative, and I can’t wait until my owners return, even if one of them is Welsh.