The news of the chuffin cat’s rooftop protest was spread quicker than a flock of chickens in a drumstick factory. Whilst I am loathe to publicise and thereby condone this type of manipulative feline behaviour, I feel that some kind of explanation is needed.
The chuffin cat is well-known for her outspoken views on a variety of subjects, particularly concerning the inappropriate use of thermometers by veterinary surgeons (vets). As such, a trip to see the vet can be a very traumatic event: it takes me a long time to calm down on such occasions.
The appointment was booked for yesterday. Gauntlets, goggles and earplugs were gathered, along with the riot police on standby. The cat carrier had been left in the corner of the lounge: the elephant in the room (An elephant? With hindsight that might have been a good addition). All bedroom doors were closed, windows shut, cupboards blocked off.
Half an hour before the appointment time, I realised that the chuffin cat had disappeared. I also realised that I had neglected to lock the most important door of all – the chuffin cat’s personal security door (cat flap).
I ventured outside and stopped when I heard an indignant but distant <miaow>. Looking up, I spied the chuffin cat on the very top of the roof, a black cloud hovering above her head in contrast to the vivid blue sky beyond. I won’t demean myself by giving too much detail on what followed next; suffice to say lots of calling, begging and pleading could be heard. Expletives littered the air (mainly from the chuffin cat). A food bowl was fetched, along with a crackly food bag, biscuits, cat toys, cat nip spray, cat nip bubbles, a pot of cream, a banana (great for throwing), a bar of chocolate (I was really working up an appetite) but all to no avail. A small crowd began to gather on the other side of the path, adding to the pressure – who would win? The negotiator or the protester?
After 30 minutes, I felt it necessary to ring the vet. When he had stopped laughing, he told me to make my way to the surgery once the offender had been captured. By this time, the chuffin cat had made her way down to the porch roof. A much better position – high enough to stay out of reach but low enough to eyeball her negotiator in defiance.
I then had a sudden thought. I waved goodbye to the chuffin cat, came into the house, locked the front door behind me and hid. After 3 minutes there was an almighty explosion of scrabbling and wailing outside. As I opened the door in strutted the chuffin cat, nose in the air, tail rigid like a fluffy toilet brush, wondering why she was no longer the centre of attention. Quick as a flash, I grabbed the errant animal, stuffed her headfirst into the cat carrier (bit of a squash) and dashed off to see the vet, with a swirl of dust and a squeal of tyres. There was no need to play any music en route as the chuffin cat serenaded me for the entire journey.
Walking into the surgery was particularly awkward, especially as I felt obliged to announce, “I’ve got the rooftop protester here for you.”
Back home a little while later, I wondered what had caused such extreme behaviour from her naughty chuffness. As I glanced across at the calendar on the wall, it all became clear: when listing the appointment to see the vet, I had for some strange, unknown reason written ‘take cat to Sainsbury’s’ instead. She clearly hates shopping far more than she hates the vet. And I really should get tested for Alzheimers.