The courtyard’s feline politics continue to evolve. Established residents Eric and Little Fatty seem to have resigned themselves to the permanent presence of Psycho Bob, whose recent trip to the vet to have his activities curtailed has had no effect at all on his psychotic attack-cat tendencies.
Blatant earwigging on my part when vodka-swilling Polish neighbour was on the phone to the pôle emploi seemed to suggest that he had landed a permanent job somewhere and was planning to move house (I say ‘seemed’ – it’s not easy to eavesdrop accurately when both parties are operating in a second language which one of them speaks very badly and in a Polish accent).
But the arrival two Sundays later of a further Pole with estate car and trailer confirmed my suspicions, particularly when he proceeded to load a pile of furniture and a small jungle’s worth of house plants into the trailer and push off. Unfortunately it slipped his mind that he is, at least technically, a cat owner. To be fair, Psycho Bob had clearly moved out several months previously, but you’d think he might at least mention that he planned to abandon the cat to its fate.
This leaves us with three cats, two of them increasingly middle-aged and grumpy, plus one oversized bushy tail which probably needs a basket all to itself. This is really rather too much cat for the size of the house.
Thing With Nuts, meanwhile, seems to have changed his territorial boundaries and although regularly spotted on his way to somewhere else, now rarely stops off to create mayhem. Unfortunately his previous incursions have once more left next door’s Shameless Hussy in a rather compromised position after she escaped from the house for a spot of noisy feline houghmagandie behind the garage.
This can only mean yet more feline interlopers, since our house has apparently become the cat equivalent of the Café de Paris. Evenings are spent picking up and putting out Fuzzy Kitten – a previous result of Thing With Nuts’ sexual incontinence – and Strangely Bald Tabby, recent addition to next door’s mini-zoo. I am barred from speaking to either of these visitors on the spurious grounds that I might encourage them to move in and then turn immediately into the sort of mad old bat who shuffles about town smelling of cat wee, carrying multiple poly bags and wearing a strange hat.
I dread returning from our week in Sussex to find that the entire feline population has moved in, installed a sound system and started dealing Class A drugs and running guns from the bedroom. So far Fuzzy Kitten and Strangely Bald Tabby don’t seem to have grasped the cat flap concept, but this can only be a matter of time.