We had a minor cat drama last night. At 11.30pm youngest daughter comes down to our room to tell us that the Little Cat, known as Nina to some, Ploddy to others, and Mongolita to one unkind brute, has jumped out through the roof window and is fighting with Otto the big unloved Turkish Van cat.
When we go back upstairs to look, there’s no sign of Little Cat or Otto but there’s a whole string of moggies at the edge of the roof staring down into the street. Daughter runs downstairs in a panic, but there’s nothing in the street except the usual. Meanwhile the sound of a cat fight starts up again but a couple of roofs away. All we can do is leave the window open and hope she finds her way back.
Little Cat is the sweetest little cat ever. But she has several issues. We found her abandoned in the street outside when she was about six months old, emaciated, full of worms and with a ruptured bowel. She couldn’t walk properly and kept falling over because the extreme intestinal problems and malnutrition had affected her brain.
In time, after two operations and intensive deworming, the intestinal stuff was sorted out, but she still has no sense of balance and falls over for no reason. She will always be nutty as a fruitcake, will never walk normally and will always thud about like a small elephant. Branwell, who is three times her size is wary of her. When she plays, she plays to win, and she beats him up mercilessly. The great wimp squeaks like a small rodent and hides under a bed when she gets it into her tiny little head to hurtle, around like a furry meteorite, knocking over everything in her path. The other day she sent a full laundry basket bowling down the stairs and into the door at the bottom.
Needless to say she isn’t allowed out. She’s fallen out of a second floor window twice with no ill effects, but if she wandered off and fell off a wall or a roof we might never get her back.
I had a bad night, woken several times by nothing, just listening for the sound of her clopping across the ceiling. She wasn’t back when husband got up at five. I had just dropped off into an anxious sleep when I was woken by an almighty crash on the veranda roof. I knew it was her. Before I had time to get out of bed she had barged her way through the shutters and flopped through our window ready for her breakfast. Her tail was all bushed up and she had a few stray tufts of loose hair. Other than that, nobody would have known she’d spent all night out on the tiles fighting, and had just dropped two floors from the roof. Talk about drunks.