Cat Got Your Tongue

The curtains are twitching, we're getting funny looks at the bakers, and in the Post Office the old age perishers and the senile delinquents are giving us the eye.

It's getting like Royston Vasey round here. Lord knows what the butcher is putting in our sausages at the mo.

And its not like we don't know what's started the tongues wagging down the snickets. We know all right. And we're ashamed and annoyed with ourselves but its done now and there's nowt we can do about it. We're just going to have to hold our heads high and brave the storm of public opinion.

We admit it! We lost the cat!

It all started when we lived a few miles away in this cosy little cul-de-sac where everybody knew each other and hung out together of an evening. It was a genuine little community and everyone looked out for each other. And at the heart of all this was an elderly couple of varmits called Betty and Joe, who had a cat who was nearly as old as they were. Pinko she was called.

Grumpy little sod it was, always scrapping with the other moggies and nicking food. But Pinko was Bet and Joe's pride and joy - Bet had raised it from a tiny kitten and made sure it was a runner almost eighteen years ago. I didn't even know the batteries in a cat lasted anything like this long, so I was in awe of the little minx for this reason alone.

And then for some reason the loony who owned the place picked on them for something really mean - Joe'd been in hospital after a minor fall and he used this as a reason to give them their notice. Anyone else would have bent over backwards to help 'em out - installed a hand rail to help Joe up the incline or something - but no, they were given their marching.

By then me and our lass had long moved on. Had ourselves a good place with a garden the size of the Yorkshire Dales. Critters everywhere. Loads of room. Bet and Joe, by contrast decided to move into one of these 'managed communities' and part of the deal was that Pinko had to find another home.

So there we were round at the old place just before the big flit last but one bonfire night and we'd had a few too many Hooches. So we said "Yup, don't you worry your fat, Bet and Joseph. We'd be glad to look after your Pinko. What's another cat to look after!"

Now I don't think we'd properly thunk this one out. This was a cat with arthritis and a mean attitude. We'd surely be down the vet every other Saturday morning. She was going to smell the place out, fart everywhere and generally be a feline pain in the backside.

But as it was, Pinko was a good sort. Took to us really well, and went marching around the garden like she owned the place. Got on with our own happy cat so well they began to hang out together. Then Betty came round with a ton of fancy cat stuff from Petmart and enough Wiskas to feed Rolf Harris for a month. And the old cat loved it. For about a week.

Then Pinko figured us out, and she wasn't best pleased.

You see Betty and Joe were huge meat eaters, and our Pinko was a classic mitherer - and generally ended up with half of whatever the old dears were having. She was their personal food taster. Tin of Pilchards? Here Pinko! How about a nice tin of John West? Here puss puss! A bloody great Haddock straight up from Grimsby with a police escort? Meow!!!

Round our house it was a bit different. For a start our lass and me were both brought up by Yorkshire mams who taught us to empty our plates ("Think of the starving in Ethiopia!") and never to waste a thing. We're the sort who wring out the milk bottle. Pinko didn't stand a chance. And it's not like she didn't try hard. No kidding if we went anywhere near the kitchen there was a black and white slaver machine yelling at us in broad catterral. But no leftovers. Ever. Just boring old cat food.

Anyroad, after a while Pinko gave up on us and started bothering the locals at mealtimes. Some days we'd not see her until sun down. Bet and Joe came around several times (Bet carrying a ton of the poshest cat food this side of Harrods - I mean WE don't eat THAT good!) but Pinko would give them the backside and skulk off into the undergrowth. We'd be making small talk about the goings on in Pinkoland, the new grumpycat theme park we'd set up.

And then Pinko started disappearing for a night. Or two. Then she'd be back lozzarking about on the sofa like she'd never been anywhere. And it went on. Yadda yadda yadda. Bet would be on the phone for Pinko gossip every other day, and we'd end up making up catty stories to make her happy.

But then we let it slip that Pink was turning into a bit of a slapper - cadging grub off any old local with a tin opener. The gaps between seeing the old mog were getting wider and wider, and Bet's endless visits with bags of cat food were beginning to fill the cupboard. And eventually we had to level with her, Pinko was more or less completely absent, and was clearly being fed and watered elsewhere.

Finally Pinko stopped showing up at all.

We bluffed it a bit with Bet, whilst we spread the word about the missing furry food hoover. Once, after ten days she popped back in just to say "Humph" . But that was it.

Betty of course, needle stuck on guilt for not keeping Pinko hidden in a cupboard at the sheltered housing place, started suspecting the worst. And one night, after increasingly desparate bluffery, she came right out with it. "She's dead isn't she, and you're just not telling us!!" Naw! Course not! She were round here raiding the leftovers just last Monday. "I don't believe you!!"

Now this was tricky. None of the neighbours were owning up to the catnapping, and we'd put out the APB around the local vets. No sign. No clues. But cats are cats, you can't tell the blighters what to do, so we figured if she's ran off with a trucker so be it.

So there we are one morning watching the early morning coverage of the Jap Grand Prix and there's a braying on the door. It's Bet and Joe. Two fuming eighty year olds, with a cat box. We're not even dressed. They've clearly been up all night watching Terminator movies.

They've come for the cat.

I can't stop them, and there's none of their rellies close by to ring up and say "Hey, your Gran and Grandad are rooting around our bushes!" We've done everything we can to make sure Pinko was all right, but try convincing the now quite dangerous OAPs in our back garden.

That's it. We're marked as the people who neglected their cat. Never mind the fact that this furry freak took upon itself to go walkabout, presumably in search of a freshly opened tin of tuna steak. We're the bad guys. And now everyone knows!

Betty is now totally convinced that Pinko popped her clogs months ago and is now hunting around our garden for signs of a recent burial. It's like Prime Suspect. I'm expecting the RSPCA to take me away in a straight-jacket at any minute, followed by the Look North camera crew.

Eventually another happy cabbie shows up to drive 'em off. We're still shell shocked. We've know Bet and Joe for years now, and were ever-presents at their parties. Mum and dad are always asking about them. But we don't get the invites anymore. We've only been in the locale for about five years. Bet and Joe have lived here all their lives and are local royalty. We're suddenly off the social map...

This Bonnie Night was very different. We were on Pinko watch. We haven't actually laid eyes on the little fur ball for six months, but tonight could be different and, well, what's that moving in the bushes... I'll just go and check it out...

Blogga