THE SAUSAGE THIEF
He simply couldnt ignore that cat. Not only because of the sly little pilfering that went on in his cosy corner shop, but also for the manner in which it was donea way so delightfully roguish, it was impossible not to smile. Quite the contrary, in fact.
Every day, the shopkeeper found himself eagerly awaiting the start of these antics. Hed film the scene on his mobile, only to show it to his wife in the evening. Theyd both dissolve into laughter, the sort that creases your cheeks and brightens even the gloomiest London afternoon.
The cats approach was always the same. Hed perch outside the open door, giving the impression hed simply stopped for a rest, entirely innocent. Hed glance this way and that, ensuring the coast was clear. All the while, the shopkeeper was hunched behind the massive fridge, filming from his hiding spot.
Then, the cat would tiptoe in, straight to the counter where the finest sausages were displayed. There, hed quicken his pace just enough, snatch a banger or a Cumberland, and dart back out. Hunger, however, wouldnt let him make it too far. Just a few yards from the shop, hed pause, drop his prize, and set about devouring it.
The shopkeeper would emerge, standing in the doorway without moving closer.
Good, is it? hed call out.
The cat would lift his head and give a meow of agreement.
Jolly good, the shopkeeper would respond. Do come back soon.
You might wonder why the sausages sat out like thisuntainted by the chill of refrigeration, hardly in the spotlight, laid out in tempting rows of bangers and pork pies. It was all rather simple, really.
The shopkeeper just had a soft spotor perhaps a soft heart.
Hed noticed the cat had come around looking thin as a rake and battered, too wild to accept food offered by hand. But he was clever. So, the shopkeeper devised a plan. He placed the sausages near the door at first, just within paws reach, to allow the little thiefa name he later decided should be Oliverto nick his sustenance and feel hed earned it.
It worked. Gradually, he moved the sausages further in, until they sat among the rest of the wares. He kept a special shelf low down, near the skirting, a secret feeding spot.
By now, Oliver could easily stroll in, help himself to whatever he fancied and slink off, but there was real pleasure in the heist. For Oliver, the thrill made the reward all the tastier.
Later, the shopkeeper put out a water bowl, a generous dish of luxury cat food, and even a plastic box with litter. Not far off, he set up a little dog kennel, lined with a warm tartan blanket.
Oliver, ever the sceptic, wasnt keen to be touched but he did enjoy a good chat. The shopkeeper would follow him outside with his stolen sausage and make conversation. Oliver, between mouthfuls, would look up and offer a mew in return.
But lately, one thing puzzled the shopkeeper. Oliver had become plumper, his coat glossy, andclearlyhe didnt need to steal sausages any longer. Yet still, a handful of times each day, hed run his old routine, snatch a couple, and disappear round the corner.
Tried as he did, the shopkeeper never managed to follow and see where Oliver went; the cat always slipped away. So, he bought a little camera with a decent view, rigging it up to watch the alley and send the feed to his computer in the stockroom.
One evening, the secret unravelled: from the basement window of the terrace house just round the corner, a ginger kitten sprang out, trembling with anticipation, and leapt onto the sausage Oliver had left.
The shopkeepers wife, tears streaming as she watched the footage, demanded, Youre to bring them both home tomorrow! You hear me?
But it wasnt that simple. Oliver could now be scooped up easilyhed even sleep stretched out in the middle of the shop. The ginger kitten, however, was far too wary and would vanish at any hint of approach.
Days drifted by. The shopkeeper watched on the camera as the little ginger kitten drank at Olivers bowl and napped in the dogs kennel, but the moment anyone came too close, it would bolttail held highlike a streak of orange lightning.
Everything changed one day when the man heard a strange sound from the shop entrance. There were no customers. He left his place behind the counter and headed for the door.
There sat the ginger kitten, yowling at the top of its lungs.
Whats wrong, little one? he asked, kneeling down.
The kitten dashed over, looked straight into his eyes, then trotted to the alley. The shopkeeper followed without a second thought. There, behind the house, lay Oliver, whimpering softly. Hed been bitten by a dog, and though hed escaped, his hind leg was badly wounded.
The ginger kitten nudged against Oliver and cried out again.
Bless my soul, murmured the man.
He shrugged off his coat, bundled the groaning Oliver inside, scooped up the ginger kittenwho made no protestand tucked him securely into his jacket pocket. He locked the shop and rushed to the car.
For five hours at the vets surgery, he sat as Oliver was stitched up and tended to. By the time they left, the kitten (now named Ember, for his fiery colour) had thoroughly charmed everyone.
That evening, he closed up the shop and brought Olivergroggy from the anaestheticand Ember home.
His wife was overjoyed. And what does an Englishwoman do when overcome with happiness? Why, she rings every friend shes ever had, and the conversation takes hoursreliving every last detail, accepting ample congratulations, and harvesting advice.
When at last she was done, the husband, Oliver, and Ember were sprawled across the bed, fast asleep.
Well, isnt this just marvellous, said his wife, hands on hips. And where am I supposed to sleep?
Ember scooted over with a purr, curling against her and kneading her arm with his tiny paws.
And so, they all found their home.
Now the two moggiesbig, sleek, and well-feddont look anything like the strays they once were. Sometimes Oliver, out of sheer habit, gives Ember a good wash, and Ember never minds.
And just across the road, outside the shoe shop, a small grey tabby has taken up residence. The sales assistant there regularly pops into the corner shop to buy treats for her.
Perhaps one day shell bring the tabby home as well?
Maybe, one day, every cat will find a home, and therell be such a shortage that people will queue for miles and sit exams on caring for cats, just to be allowed one of their own.
What do you think? Could it ever happen?