Cat Flaps

Or, more specifically, lockable cat flaps.

The stray who has adopted us has so far had nearly as many names as he has lives - Sam, Ruby, Tink, Cat, Jimmy, cat-who-sleeps-on-lettuce, but none are sticking. I wonder how his new name - Tiger - will fare.

My mother spent the second world war in a pub in Porthcawl owned by her grandmother. Apparently my great granny always used to keep the runt of the litter on the grounds they would turn out to be the "best little mouser". And for sure our cat is a right little runt.

This week he has been bringing us little mouse treats all night - smackerels we'd be ok with if they weren't quite so alive. We've been spending all night capturing and releasing. Well, I say we, but actually that's Anne's job. Mine is to shudder, hide under the duvet and wail like a girl.

(To be fair, I was once teaching a class of 12 year old girls and spotted a mouse sat looking at me. I screamed, much like the housemaid in Tom and Jerry, and jumped on a chair. I can't recall what actually happened to the mouse at all, but I do remember that this prefaced the end of my teaching career.)

Anyway, last night we came to an agreement to lock the cat flap. And slept pretty well apart from the sounds of a tiger hurling himself against the flap every hour..




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