THE SAUSAGE THIEF
Its impossible to think back on those years and not picture that cat. You see, he was a regular at my little grocers shop for reasons quite unusualhe was a thief, but a thief of such charm you couldnt be cross with him. Quite the opposite, in fact.
I used to look forward to his antics with real anticipation, waiting for his routine to begin. Id always record it on my mobile, and later, my wife and I would watch the footage together and laugh until our sides ached. Such simple pleasures we shared.
That cat would spend an age sitting in front of the open shop door, feigning indifference, as if he were just resting his paws rather than up to anything sneaky. Hed cast glances left and right, making sure the coast was clear while I hid behind the tall fridge, filming the lot.
Once satisfied, hed creep inside, heading directly for the sausages. Reaching the counter, hed quicken his step, grab a Cumberland or a banger in his teeth, and dash back out the door. His hunger wouldnt let him get far; just a few yards from the shop, hed plop down and tuck in, utterly content.
Id step out, never getting too close and call over, Tasty, is it?
Hed lift his head and give a polite meow of agreement.
Splendid, then! Youre welcome anytime! Id say with a chuckle.
Now you might wonder: why the sausages, left uncovered, not behind the glass, and resting on the lowest shelf? Why individual sausages and bangers just lying there? The answer is very simple.
The heart of a true English shopkeeper is a soft one.
You see, the cat had turned up looking frightfully thin and bedraggled, too wild to take food from the hand. So, I devised a little scheme. At first, I left sausages close to the entrance so the roguewho Id taken to calling Olivercould nick his supper with a clear conscience, having earned it by his own cunning.
It worked a treat. Gradually, I moved the sausages deeper into the shop until, at last, they sat on a low shelf beneath the counter, right beside the other goods.
It became Olivers feeding stationalthough by then, he could have strolled in and picked the choicest sausage, no questions asked. But for him, the thrill was in the taking. Somehow, a stolen bite tasted all the better.
Later, I set a water dish outside, a proper bowl of choice cat food, and even a litter tray in a sheltered nook. Not long after, I put up a small dog kennel lined with a warm blanketAll the comforts of home, right there by my back door.
Oliver remained wary, not one for cuddles, but he did love a good chat after supper. Id follow him out, and wed converse in our own wayhed pause his meal, look over, and give his opinion with a little mew.
But there was one thing that puzzled me. Oliver had grown plump and glossy, with no real need to pinch sausages anymore. Yet, he continued to pilfer a couple every day, vanishing round the corner without fail. I tried more than once to follow, yet hed always lose me.
So, I got myself a little camera with a decent lens and fixed it up to watch where he went. One day, I found his secret.
From the basement window of the house next door peeked a ginger kitten, trembling with anticipation for the meal Oliver brought him. The moment Oliver dropped his sausage, the little chap pounced and gobbled it up.
That evening, my wife was in tears as she scolded, Tomorrow, you must bring them both indoorsdo you hear me? Both!
Easier said than done. Catching Oliver was easy enough by thenhed started napping at the shop. But the kittenhe was another matter entirely.
Days went by. Through the camera, I saw the ginger kitten drink from Olivers bowl and nap in the old kennel, but whenever I edged near, hed zip away like lightning, tail straight as a ramrod.
Everything changed one afternoon when a strange commotion at the doorway caught my ear. No customers were about. I came out from behind the till and found the ginger kitten yowling at the doorstep for all the world to hear.
Whats the trouble, little one? I asked, baffled.
He darted to me, stared into my eyes with urgency, and ran off, clearly wanting me to follow. Behind the neighbours house, I found Oliver, whimpering in paina dog had bitten his hind leg, and hed barely broken free.
The ginger kitten pressed his head into Olivers side and wailed again.
Oh, you poor thing, I murmured.
I took off my coat, bundled Oliver gently, scooped up the ginger kittenwho, for once, did not resistand tucked him safely in my jacket pocket. I shut the shop, loaded all of us into my old Morris, and headed to the vet.
We spent five hours there while Olivers leg was stitched and bandaged, during which time the ginger kitten, whom Id now named Ember, became my fast friendplayful, bold, and ever so curious.
That evening, I carried home both a groggy Oliver and a lively Ember. My wife was over the moon. And as women do when overjoyed, she rang all her friends for long, winding catch-ups and advice.
When at last shed finished, I found myself sharing the bed with Oliver and Ember stretched out beside me, dead to the world.
A fine old state of affairs, she declared. And where am I supposed to sleep?
But Ember wriggled, making room for her, and promptly nestled into her side, kneading her gently with his little paws.
And thats how we all found our home.
Now, Oliver and Ember are grand, pampered cats, bearing no resemblance to the scrappy creatures from years ago. Sometimes, out of habit, Oliver licks Ember clean, and Ember never minds.
And across the street, outside the cobblers, a little grey she-cat has taken up residence. The saleswoman there often pops round to my shop to buy something for her supper.
Who knowsperhaps one day, shell have a home too.
Maybe, in time, every stray will have a family, and cats will be such a rarity, theyll be given out by the councilwith waiting lists and courses besides. What do you thinkcould it ever come to that?
