Primitive Cunning

There are times when one realises that Mrs Grey Cat’s wiliness has its limitations. She is shut in the back kitchen at night lest she beat up Miss Kit; apart from feeling that Miss Kit is entitled to a restful night’s sleep, we feel that we might legitimately look for one ourselves, and outbreaks of squalling and thumping beneath the bed are not good for anyone. Last night, Mrs Grey was not to be found in any of her usual haunts. It was a very mild night, so windows were open, and I thought it very possible that she had decided to stop out. Miss Kit and I had gone to bed, while the NP finished up some stuff on the computer in the adjacent room, when there was a certain shivering of the bedroom curtains. Miss Kit sat bolt upright and began to growl. Mrs Grey had, it become clear, retreated to the roof of the sitting-room bow window, which of course provides a slanting but flattish surface immediately below the (open) window of the bedroom, to bide her time. Pretty dash clever. Except that of course she chose to manifest herself at a point when the lights were still on and the household not yet retired; it was the work of moments to climb into a skirt, seize her and consign her to Colditz as usual. It was an excellent idea. But she blew it. In future I’ll shine a torch over the leads.

One Response to “Primitive Cunning”

  1. carol Says:

    I tunnelled out of Stalag Sussex today and Walked to the pub (capital letter really earned). Given that I can trot from home to the Globe Theatre in an hour dead, and did the same approximate distance in terms of timing it there and back today: well, that’s a lot of bosky hedgerow I can tell you, and very little else. Much honeysuckle, more nettles, too hot for midges, but barechested men driving fast convertables were briefly in evidence. Sussex beer not bad. Tired legs now. Happy weekend all.

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