Janet Christie’s Mum’s the Word

PIC PHIL WILKINSON.TSPL / JOHNSTON PRESS''JANET CHRISTIE ,  MAGAZINE WRITER
PIC PHIL WILKINSON.TSPL / JOHNSTON PRESS''JANET CHRISTIE , MAGAZINE WRITER
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Biggie Smalls cleans up the hood

Biggie Smalls here. She never writes about me in case people think she’s a mad cat lady – but we all know cats rule the web, so while I appear to be dozing atop the laptop, I’ll take my chance. Because this week I did her proud.

Biggie Smalls here. She never writes about me in case people think she’s a mad cat lady – but we all know cats rule the web, so while I appear to be dozing atop the laptop, I’ll take my chance. Because this week I did her proud.

This is my time, mousing season, with outside frozen and inside alive with the scuttling of supper, “the only reason he gets houseroom” as she says when my ginger hairs transform her into the Human Macaroon.

So next door has a mouse – I could have told them that, with my sense of smell 14 times stronger and hearing range nearly two octaves higher than any human, but I lay back and waited for the screaming. Next thing She’s pimping me out. “Of course you can borrow him, he needs the exercise,” she says, the cheek.

I like next door, nice and tidy, things to explore, ornaments, cushions, mmmmm scented candles...

“He’s having a good sniff at everything,” says the Neighbour, as I breathe deep on one of the candles. Yes, the mouse is in the kitchen, but hey, cats are nosey. Next I lie down halfway up the stairs and rake my back claws across the carpet, just for fun.

“That’s a pre-hunting thing,” I hear Her bluff, fearing Next Door is doubting my mousing.

So I stroll into the bedroom, sniff at the floorboards, flex my mighty mousing paw...

“That’s good!” says the Neighbour, “That’s where it came from!”

… And lie down on the sheepskin rug.

“Right, well, I’ll just leave him here..,” She says, and retreats.

Fast forward to the middle of the night, and I’m hurtling through the Neighbour’s cat flap, barrelling through my own, leaping onto Her bed, holding the beastie down on her chest with one paw, tapping Her cheek with the other... She’s going to be so pleased!

Aggggh! With a banshee scream, she jumps up and the critter wriggles free. Idiot.

Never mind, I spend the next hour playing cat and mouse under the bed while She tries to intervene. Not this time. The Neighbour wants it dead, not released outside with a bit of cheese for its trouble. Oh no, this mouse is dinner. Finally with a series of bone-shattering crunches it’s all over. She sheds a tear, but in the morning she’s straight Next Door and it’s all Biggie Smalls the hero.

That night a thank you card, also addressed to me, a bottle of wine (for Her), and one of those lovely scented candles. Aw, they noticed. Humans, not as stupid as you think.