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The cat was sitting on the patio, frowning. A cat can't frown, I hear you say. Believe me, Ollie can. It's got something to do with the way his ears and whiskers twitch. His two front fangs hang down over his lower lip and they are much more exposed when he is cross. His eyes get sort of wide and glittery too and he sits primly with his front feet together. Just the end of his tail twitches. It's trouble-hatching time.
It's all Ted's fault. Ollie believes that Ted was put on this earth purely for a cat's enjoyment. Ted is supposed to attend to Ollie's every whim - he must answer when meowed at, massage certain parts of the cat's body when presented, lift him off ladders, free his paws from paste or glue and wash said paws if need be. Mostly Ted obliges but this morning he was in a hurry and wanted to get away to another job before noon. He didn't talk to or massage the cat and there is nothing like a spurned lover.
Ted had just finished fixing my garden stool and had stood it up against the patio wall for me to admire. It is a beautifully crafted stool, just the right height for gardening and had incondiderately split down the middle. "It just needs a bit of linseed oil to finish it off," said Ted, when presenting me with his clever reconstruction, "but keep it out of the rain. I don't want it to get wet until the glue dries. I'd probably have to re-do the whole thing."
I was just turning to leave the patio when it happened - Ollie unfolded himself, scowled at Ted and presented his tail to the freshly-glued stool. In seconds he had performed a little dance and drenched the stool from end to end. Moral of the story. It doesn't pay to mess with the cat.
Editor's note:
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