Splendid curry with fine folk last night. Discussed Lesvos and Snowdonia, and topics in between.
Dawdled tipsily home and, as we agreed glasses of water and plans for today, the cat clambered into his litter box and pooed out quite a belter. Should have known it was brewing: he only waits for us to come home when he’s sitting on an elephant. That way we can clear it up quickly, and he’s not left to skulk round the stinkied-out house.
While the poop was dealt with by the eye-watering wife, I helped expunge the fug by opening the skylight. As regular readers will know, our kitchen is in the attic and keeps its windows in the ceiling.
This morning, I was awoke from tasty slumber by something of a panic: the Dr could not locate the cat. He wasn’t hiding behind curtains or on top of the fridge. He wasn’t lurking among the old Dr Who comics that clutter the legroom under my desk. Nor was he in the living room where O. has been sleeping – O. had shut the door to prevent more cat-sitting-on-face hilarity.
The culprit soon became clear: the open skylight window. It’s quite a leap from the worktop to the roof, but not impossible for a cat.
Yet we speak in this case of a cat who falls off the tabletop for no very good reason, who can miss the chair he’s jumping on to, who can lose his catnip mice and socks even as he’s playing with them, and who fell out of the living room window earlier this year.
We speak of a cat that is famously dim and an almost doggish klutz.
I climbed on a chair to poke my head out the skylight but could see nothing but the steep-inclined tiles and a clear if wintry sky.
Leaving the wife to call the cat’s name and shake a tin of treaty biscuits, I went to look out other windows for a hairy black splat in the neighbouring gardens. This work was interrupted by a shriek from upstairs.
The cat was poking his nose nonchalantly through the skylight, wondering as to all the fuss. I leapt on the chair and grabbed his front paws, and after he realised that fighting back meant he lost his grip on the tiles underneath him, he conceded to be hauled back inside.
Little sod seems rather pleased with his adventure. We suspect he may have gone up there for the sake of chasing birds. But, as I explained to him in stern parental fashion, “You are not the same as Alfie.”