Дорин Тови - More Cats in the Belfry

It was Tani I took to Langford on Monday morning. Apologised. Explained the mistake. The vet, sorry though she was for Tani, laughed heartily. Evidently she knew Saphra's reputation. Tani had broken the claw off at the base, said the vet – no doubt in escaping from the dog – and must have since been trying to pull out the rest of it. She dressed the wound and bandaged it. Tani would soon have that off, I said. So she wrapped the whole leg round with sticking plaster, right to the top, till it looked like a policeman's truncheon. She gave her a course of antibiotics too, and said wait till the end of the week. If I could get the plaster off on Sunday, well and good. If not, bring her back to the Monday evening surgery at 5 p.m. and somebody would do it for me.

I could well imagine myself at Langford for the evening surgery. Tani screaming the place down about White Slavers, my having to pull out afterwards on the A38 with her in the car, when all the office workers were streaming home from Bristol. I worried all the week, while Tani clonked round raising her paw determinedly sideways instead of forwards. Come Sunday I got the plaster off easily. Wouldn't you bet? And her paw had healed beautifully inside it. That was because she was a Good Girl, she assured me.

It is funny when you look back on it. Lots of things are funny in retrospect. Like the woman who wrote to tell me of her Siamese coming home with a joint of beef in its mouth, the carving fork still embedded in it. Like Pat telling me of her new seal-point female, Kiri, bought as companion for Luki, who wasn't turning out to be a good girl at all, but kept going up on neighbours' roofs, round their chimney pots, and bringing home everything under the sun. An enormous piece of pork crackling. An outsize sausage. Goodness knew where she got them. Luki was doing his best – he'd come home with another beefburger. But Kiri was definitely outstripping him: her latest trophy, which Pat had thought was the crust of a large loaf of bread and had gone up the garden to take from her, had turned out to be a whole breaded plaice. They'd be forced to move soon, she said.

There was the cat belonging to an Australian girl who came to see me. She'd left it at home with her parents while she was working in Europe, and one day it had got out and made off down the street. Her mother had rushed out and chased after it – and so, said Marie, had her father, who was confined to a wheelchair. He'd gone whizzing down the road too, and they'd caught it between them. Funny when you visualised it, wasn't it? she asked. Funny it was indeed. The longer one keeps cats – particularly Siamese – the battier I think one gets. Excuse me while I put the teapot in the refrigerator. I do it quite often these days.

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