The Hairy Tails of a Cat Sitter

by C H Hemington

Chapter 3 - Fur, Feathers and Hairless Tails

  In my years as a cat sitter I’ve come across some unlikely companions to the cats I’ve looked after. Take Herbert for example, a rather gorgeous black and white pet rat whose whiskers squeaked when he washed them. Herbert lived in a house with Fortune, a tabby cat with a ferocious reputation in the neighbourhood. People who knew her would hastily move to the other side of the road to avoid her, and woe betide any other cat that dared crossed her path. She was the most fiercely territorial cat that I’d ever met and she had the scars to prove it.

  Such was her reputation that I was required to go through a formal interview process via Skype, with Fortune’s owners Harriet and Max, before I was even allowed to step over their threshold. Whilst they quizzed me on my experience of handling ‘difficult’ cats I could see Fortune in the background, sitting on a windowsill growling at whatever or whoever was passing by outside.

  Having successfully got through the preliminary interview stage Harriet and Max invited me to their home to meet Fortune. It was only then, and with some astonishment, that I found out that not only did they keep a pet rat under the same roof, but that Herbert the rat was allowed to come and go from his cage as and when he pleased.

  Now I’m no David Attenborough but even I knew that having a cat and a rat in the same room together mightn’t be of absolute benefit to the rat, so what was going on here? Did they keep a plethora of Herberts, each a sacrifice to the God of Good Fortune? I started to slowly back away from them in the hope that I could get out before they sacrificed me too.

  “I realise it might sound a bit odd,” Harriet quickly intervened, before inviting me to sit down so that she could tell me the whole story.

  Harriet and Max had initially acted as foster carers for Fortune who’d been dumped at the gates of a local rescue centre ten months previously. During her initial veterinary check it was discovered that Fortune had recently given birth, but what had happened to the kittens, no-one knew. So it was felt that she’d do better in a home environment rather than at the shelter where she may be able to both smell and hear kittens that belonged to other new mums. So with the metaphorical label of ‘grouchy’ being attached to her, off she went to live temporarily with Max and Harriet.

  Only a week before agreeing to foster Fortune the couple had bought a rat and called him Herbert, after James Herbert, the author of the famous fictional rat books. They didn’t consider that having Herbert would cause any problems and the rescue centre had agreed that, as long as they kept him secure and in a separate room, this should be fine.

  After a week it was clear that Fortune was finding it difficult to settle and a very worried Max and Harriet didn’t know what more they could do to help her. It was then that a happy mishap occurred. Early one morning when Max had already left for work and Harriet was in the process of getting dressed, the phone in their bedroom rang. It was Social Services telling Harriet that Mrs Caruthers, an old lady who lived down the road and for whom Harriet was an emergency contact, had taken a fall and pressed her panic button. Harriet had flown out of the house to attend to Mrs Caruthers who was shaken but otherwise unscathed. When Harriet arrived back home, as was her habit, she glanced into the living room to check on Fortune, but on this occasion Fortune wasn’t there. With a sinking feeling she sped upstairs to find her suspicions confirmed. In her hurry to get out of the house she had indeed left her bedroom door wide open, and it just happened to be the bedroom in which Herbert resided.

  However, instead of finding Herbert cowering in one corner of his cage with a snarling cat on top of it, Fortune was instead purring incredibly loudly whilst continually rubbing one of the corners of the cage with her cheek. Not only that, but Herbert had positioned himself in that very corner, sitting on his hind legs staring up at her, his little nose twitching for all it was worth.

  Harriet explained to me that this had given her an idea. She wondered whether it was possible that Fortune thought that Herbert was one of her kittens, after all, he was about the same size as a newborn. She knew she was taking a huge risk but nevertheless, she opened the cage door, carefully took hold of Herbert, and cupping him in both hands went over to the bed and sat down. Fortune followed and immediately re-commenced her face-rubbing activities, this time on Harriet’s hands before flopping down on her side on the bed. With her heart in her mouth, Harriet gently placed Herbert on Fortune’s belly.

  To her joy (and relief), Fortune started licking Herbert whilst he luxuriated in the joys of this new heated and very fluffy duvet. That was the moment that Harriet realised that Fortune could no longer be just a temporary member of their household, and with Max’s agreement they decided to adopt him.

  “...and since then they’ve been firm friends,” Harriet told me. “In fact she’s very protective of him, which is strange given how hostile she is with all other cats and most humans.”

  With these words ringing in my ears I took the precaution of wearing sturdy gauntlets and my stoutest knee-high boots when I first started looking after Fortune, just in case she took a fancy to my extremities.

  It was a while before she felt able to trust me and even now, a year later, I know better than to take any liberties with her. Stroking is limited to a quick tickle behind the ear and one under the chin if I’m feeling brave. As for Herbert, even though he’s now a senior citizen, albeit a sprightly one, he and Fortune still share a wonderful, heart warming relationship and she instinctively knows to be extra gentle with him in his dotage.

  Then there was Groucho, a grumpy Persian cat and her unlikely best friend Marx, a huge but affable dog that was a cross between a Rottweiler and a German Shepherd. Their owners, Greta and Mark, were a love-struck young couple who had each grown up with animals in their lives and naturally, when they moved in together one of the first items on their list of priorities was to get a pet. However, exactly what type of pet had been the cause of rare disagreement between the lovey-dovey duo. Greta’s family had always had cats, whilst Mark’s had owned dogs, so it wasn’t surprising that each wanted a pet of which they had fond memories, as well as experience.

  Mark worked from home as a graphic designer so argued that having a dog would keep him company, and because he was able to manage his own time he’d be able to give a dog whatever exercise it needed. However, Greta who was a dental nurse in the Practice I sporadically attended, had been adamant that she couldn’t live without a cat in her life. She’d told me all this whilst I was in the dental chair having one of my wisdom teeth extracted. With drooling mouth clamped open there was little I could do by way of acknowledging her chatter; after all, with various razor-sharp instruments perilously positioned inside my mouth it wasn’t like I was actually going to either nod or shake my head. I must admit I’d been surprised that the dentist didn’t intervene but as soon as Greta had popped out the room to fetch some more mouthwash he said “I hope you agree, but I find Greta’s small talk makes for a very effective method of distraction.”

  So as it was clear that neither Greta nor Mark was going to back down there was only one thing for it and that was to get one of each. Marx had been obtained from a dog shelter when he was ten weeks old and it was only a week later that a twelve week old Groucho had joined him as a member of the family.

  Greta and Mark were outdoorsy types and liked nothing better than to take off in their camper van for a weekend away surfing the waves of the Cornish coast or climbing the peaks of the Lake District, and as soon as Marx had been vaccinated and neutered he would be accompanying them. So I was lucky enough to be witness to the burgeoning relationship of this odd animal couple from quite early on.

  When Greta and Mark introduced me to the devoted two-some, at first glance it looked as though lying before me was a relatively large brown and black puppy with a relatively large and very hairy brown and black growth protruding from his side. It wasn’t until I put my glasses on that I realised that the large growth was in fact Groucho.

  “We
thought it’d be fun to get matching colours!” Greta said, positively bursting with pride.

  It was clear that Groucho and Marx, like their owners, were totally in love and over the following couple of years I would see some wonderful examples of the bond that they shared. If Groucho deigned to raise herself from her slumber and saunter over to where her food was, Marx would follow. In fact he followed her wherever she went.

  “He even sits next to her when she’s having a dump in the garden!” Mark exclaimed at our first meeting, before turning ever-so slightly red at Greta’s obvious disapproval of his inelegant turn of phrase. I never actually saw it happen but could easily imagine a scowling Groucho squatting amongst the roses whilst her guardian angel watched over her, slightly confused but nevertheless ready to protect her from any ne'er-do-well who should decide to take advantage of her indisposition.

  What I had witnessed though was a beautifully tender moment during one of my regular stop-offs at the house to pick the keys up before Greta, Mark and Marx went off on another weekend break. No sooner had I arrived than Greta was beckoning me towards the living room. Intrigued I peered in to find Marx giving Groucho what I can only describe as a bed-bath.

  Whilst she lay on her back in her cat bed, legs splayed and front paws above her head as if she was waiting for an underarm tickle, Marx would diligently work his way down her podgy body ensuring that no hair escaped a good slavering from his big old tongue. Now as any owner of a Persian cat will tell you, grooming them can be a challenge, but with Marx at the helm Groucho appeared to be in her element, except perhaps when he gave her face the once-over. It was the funniest thing to watch him as he licked the fur back from the top of her head and each of her cheeks with such force that it gave her the appearance of a 1930s butler who’d centre-parted his hair and flattened it with Brylcreem.

  During the process Groucho’s little indented nose was screwed up as far as it would go and her eyes were squeezed shut. This was clearly their party piece.

  Although it appeared that Groucho did more taking in the relationship than she did giving, it was obvious that when the rest of the family were away on holiday she missed her canine companion dreadfully, and would resolutely stay in Marx’s dog bed like a protestor tied to the railings of some government embassy building. Eventually I was able to persuade her out with a combination of cat treats and the contents of my magic cat bag, but I couldn’t help but feel sorry for her when I had to leave her on her own again at the end of my visits, hoping that, apart from the odd food and toilet break, she’d sleep through until my next one. It was during one such weekend that Greta, Mark and Marx surprised me by returning home a few hours earlier than I had expected them to. Neither was I expecting quite such a show of unfettered joy as was displayed by these best buddies when they were once again reunited. I’d never seen Groucho move as fast as when she hurtled up to Marx, purring loudly and rubbing her face all over him whilst he wagged his tail so hard I thought it would fall clean off, and then reciprocated by licking her to face until she fell over. Actually it was all quite embarrassing and I felt that rather than standing and staring, we humans should just leave them to get on with it.

  One of the most difficult pets I that I’ve had to look after was Crazy, and he also happened to be the smallest. Crazy was a budgie, and with his beautiful green, yellow and black plumage, was a handsome fellow. However underneath that fine exterior was a deceptively devious and stubborn little bird. Crazy lived with a tiny and timid black and white cat called Bunty who, once you got to know her was a little poppet. Looking after Bunty when they were away was the actual reason why owners Helen and Nick had engaged my services, Crazy had just come as part of the package.

  When I first met Crazy he was actually quite engaging, sitting on his perch chattering away to his reflection in the little mirror in his cage.

  “Got any experience of looking after budgies?” Helen asked me, and I had to admit that I knew nothing about them whatsoever. However, when I was a little girl we did have a cockatiel called Freddie, but thought it best not to mention this to Helen given that we’d owned the bird a good few years before we were informed that Freddie was in fact a girl.

  “No probs, they’re a piece of cake,” she said casually. I’d heard that kind of thing said before by owners but experience had taught me that it could in fact be a very ominous sign.

  Helen explained that Crazy would need to stretch his wings at least once a day, preferably on my morning visits. “If he looks a bit restless when you come again in the evenings, you can always give him another quick run out then,” she said. Other than finding him hopping from foot to foot on his perch, I wasn’t sure how I would be able to tell if he was ‘restless’. My biggest concern however was how I was going to get him back in his cage. “Oh that’s fine, he’ll just go back in himself when he’s ready,” Helen said, but I wasn’t re-assured.

  “And if he doesn’t?” I persisted.

  “Well if he does decide to play up, just put a little bit of banana mash on your shoulder, which he absolutely adores, then once he’s landed you can just tip him off your shoulder and into the cage, but make sure you smear the remainder of the banana on the bars of the cage, otherwise he’ll feel hard done by.”

  Other than feeling slightly concerned about Helen’s use of the words ‘playing up’ and not being exactly thrilled at the thought of having to put a lump of mashed banana on my shoulder, I was at least glad to have been given a contingency plan.

  As if to illustrate the fact that Crazy was indeed a shining example of a well behaved budgie, Helen closed the living room door, opened the door to his cage and out he flew, coming to an immediate stop on her shoulder where he stood gently nibbling her ear, whilst she returned the compliment by giving him little kisses on his beak. I felt sure this had to be rather unhygienic and wondered whether budgies carried any nasty diseases that were transmissible to humans. As if reading my thoughts, Crazy then fluttered over to me and started nibbling my ear. Actually it was quite nice! But just as I was starting to relax I felt a sharp stab on my left earlobe. The unexpected, not to mention painful peck, caused me to let out an involuntary shriek, which in turn resulted in Crazy flying off my shoulder and onto the curtain track, from where he could give me the evil eye in a way that said “Gotcha!” I instinctively put my hand to my ear to find that he had indeed drawn blood. Little bugger had completely lulled me into a false sense of security, and in my head I decided to rename him Damien after the evil child of the same name in ‘The Omen.’

  Far from looking aghast and offering to get me a tissue, Helen simply asked, through stifled giggles, if I was ok before excusing herself momentarily from the room. I got the strong impression that she’d gone to compose herself and was left alone in the room wondering if she was in on the conspiracy. By the time Helen had re-entered the room Crazy had flown back into his cage, an act I’d witnessed with huge relief, not only because it got him away from me and my ears, but because it confirmed what Helen had said about him going back in on his own.

  My other burning question was obviously “how do Crazy and Bunty get on?” I was concerned about the logistics of keeping them separated, especially given that Crazy’s cage was in the living room. In fact why people would keep a bird and a cat together in the same house was beyond me but there again, who’d have thought a rat and a cat would have turned out to be such lovebirds.

  “Well, it’s probably best to keep Bunty out of the living room whilst we’re away; she’s not that crazy about Crazy”.

  So after receiving my instructions for the care of both Bunty and Crazy I got up to leave. It was when I reached the front door that I noticed Helen’s mobile phone on the windowsill next to it. The word ‘cat-sitter’ flew out at me from the screen and I’m afraid curiosity got the better of me. Helen was right behind me, so pretending to accidentally drop my bag; I bent down in order to be able to investigate further. As I slowly rose I was able to see a text message fr
om Helen to Nick:

  ‘... He’s just pecked the cat sitter’s ear LOL!!’

  Unfortunately Helen and Nick’s trips abroad always lasted a couple of weeks and whilst that gave me enough time to gain Bunty’s trust and for us to really get to know each other, it also meant that I had fourteen whole days of the Crazy ordeal. So it was with apprehension that I opened his cage door on my very first visit, and I felt sure he was going to be able to sense my nerves. He immediately flew out, something I was actually glad of, there was no way I was going to risk refreshing his budgie seed, water and cuttlefish with him in the cage. Once I’d done this I carefully exited the room. I figured that it would be better for me to leave him to his wing stretching activities on his own, whilst I attended to Bunty’s needs. Twenty five minutes later I returned, to find him sitting in his cage, gnawing on his new cuttlefish. What a relief! I clipped the cage door closed and left, hoping that this wasn’t just beginner’s luck.

  Over the course of the next week, we all followed the same routine. During my morning visits I would leave Crazy to fly solo around the living room, whilst Bunty and I had our own fun and games. She was a sweet little thing and loved nothing more than for me to throw a little ball up the stairs for her. She’d run up, get the ball under control and then let it go, so that it bounced back down to me. From then on it became a game of baseball. I’d throw the ball back up the stairs to where she was sitting and she’d bat it back down to me with one of her petite fluffy paws. Neither of us ever tired of our game and it also helped to take my mind off what was going on in the living room. Not that I had any real cause for concern, by now it was clear that Crazy was happy to take himself back into his cage with no bribery required, and I started to think that my initial judgement of him had perhaps been a bit unfair. Nevertheless, I had continued to call him by his pet name ‘Damien’ just because I thought it was quite funny.

  So we reached the half way point of Helen and Nick’s holiday and all was going swimmingly, both for them (if their text messages were anything to go by) and for me, Crazy and Bunty, and there was nothing to suggest that this would change.

  So one evening at the beginning of the second week I strolled into the living room to see Crazy with his dangly mirror in his beak, bashing it against the side of the cage, its little bell rattling furiously. Up until that point I’d only been letting Crazy out of his cage during my morning visits, but I remembered Helen’s words about giving him another outing if he looked restless. With the vicious assault on the mirror in full swing, I indeed deemed him to be ‘restless’ and decided to let him out. Half an hour later when I re-entered the living room I expected him to be nicely ensconced in his cage, his little eyelids drooping sleepily. He wasn’t, and initially I couldn’t see him anywhere. A shrill squawk then gave his position away. He was back up on the curtain track, obviously a favourite location of his. As it was getting late I wasn’t going to muck about, so decided to try the banana trick and went out to the kitchen to mash one up. When I came back Crazy was no longer on the curtain track but was clinging onto a picture frame with a look that suggested he’d decided to give me the run-around. With some reluctance I placed a small bit of banana on my shoulder and waited in anticipation for him to swoop down onto it and start digging into the tasty morsel. He did swoop down, but not for the banana as it turned out. He’d obviously decided that my head made a good mirror substitute and started dive-bombing me with a view to attack. He was flying so close to the top of my head that I could feel the whoosh of air as his little wings flapped furiously above it. Several swoops later he actually landed on my head, but only for long enough to give it a peck before flying off again. The little rascal had lulled me into a false sense of security, again! Twenty minutes later he was still stubbornly refusing to go into his cage, and still diving at me like one of the demonic crows from the Alfred Hitchcock film ‘The Birds’. Come to think of it wasn’t the collective term for crows a ‘murder’? Very apt, I thought, given what Crazy was clearly trying to do to me. I was on the verge of giving up and leaving him to his own devices for the night when the contrary budgie unexpectedly flew back into his cage. Without hesitation I slammed the cage door shut. I still had mashed banana on my shoulder but with a bleeding head decided he didn’t deserve to have it smeared on the bars of the cage as Helen had suggested, so covered up his cage for the night and left.

  The following morning, still smarting from the experience but knowing I couldn’t deny Crazy his essential exercise, I let him out again. After all, perhaps his behaviour the previous evening had just been a night-time thing? I was wrong. In fact over the course of the next six mornings he toyed with my confidence in a way that even the most evil genius would be proud of. On some days he would be in his cage when I returned to the living room and on others we’d play the same torturous game, with him either plummeting perilously close to my head or descending on it for a physical violation of my scalp, and there was no way he was going to go back into his cage whilst he was having so much fun. He was taunting me with his unpredictability, and never before had I had occasion to use the words ‘little bugger’ so often in the course of my work, nor wear a bicycle helmet in a client’s living room.

  Despite the fact that I thought the world of Bunty, it was with huge relief that I completed my last visit. I’d decided that Helen and Nick should be made aware of Crazy’s moments of madness and resolved to do this when I went to drop the key off. As I entered their house I could hear the unmistakeable chatter of Crazy, in fact I’d never heard him talk quite so much. Putting it down to the fact that his owners were home, I sat and tickled Bunty whilst Helen went to get my payment.

  Listening to Crazy chatting on was quite funny, or at least it was until I heard the words...

  “Damien, little bugger,” “Damien, little bugger,” being chirruped over and over again.

  At that moment Helen re-appeared, and with a knowing smile said “Yes, those are new words. I don’t know where he picked them up from...”

  I decided perhaps it was best not to tell her what had happened after all.

  The only other birds I’ve had occasion to look after in the course of my cat-sitting career have been chickens, and on the whole they’ve been delightful.

  One particular brood I always looked forward to visiting comprised four chickens called Pina, Colada, Strawberry and Daiquiri.

  “The names were Danny’s idea,” their owner Courtney said rolling his eyes in the direction of his wife. I, on the other hand was only glad that Danny hadn’t called them after some of the more luridly named cocktails.

  “Well deciding to call the cats Biscuit and Barrel wasn’t you’re finest moment either,” Danny retorted.

  Biscuit and Barrel were two adorable six year-old brothers, and although they shared the same tabby and white colour fur, their physiques were very different. There was no mistaking the reason for Barrel being so-named. He was a big, rotund teddy bear of a cat and although I’d never tried, I was sure I’d struggle to pick him up. Biscuit on the other hand, was smaller and more svelte, and had the most amazing thick black line around one of his eyes, making it look like he’d forgotten to put makeup on the other and giving him the look of Malcolm McDowell’s character in ‘Clockwork Orange’. Although the boys spent lots of time outdoors they didn’t seem in the least bit bothered by the chickens which had a lovely big run and their own very swish house at the bottom of the garden.

  Biscuit and Barrel were clearly good buddies, and in all my years of looking after them I never saw a cross word pass between them. From the outset it was also clear that I was an honorary member of their gang, an award not lightly bestowed, and therefore a huge compliment. When Danny and Courtney were away, the boys would have access to a large conservatory from where they could come and go through a cat flap to the garden. Each and every time I arrived at the house I would be welcomed by their two furry faces pressed hard up against the sliding conservatory door, in eager anticipation of
play and rump-tickles. Once I’d opened the door what followed was the funniest little ritual, during which they would spend several minutes enthusiastically bashing their heads and bodies together, whilst trying to bash their heads and bodies against me at the same time. Needless to say I never tired of this routine.

  Looking after Biscuit, Barrel and the girls was especially enjoyable during the summer months as this gave me the opportunity to spend lots of time in the garden with them. My routine was to enjoy some fun and games with the boys, sort out their food and water and leave them raking away furiously at my catnip toys whilst I made my way down to the bottom of the garden to attend to the girls. Even before I stepped foot on the lawn Pina, Colada, Strawberry and Daiquiri would start clucking loudly, jostling each other and jumping up at the coop door in their eagerness to get hold of some tasty dried mealworm, blackberries or whatever other treat I had in my hands. Funnily enough I could almost understand their weakness for mealworm, it always smelled deliciously nutty, but it took me three years of feeding it to the chickens before I plucked up the courage to try it for myself.

  “You didn’t, I’ve never been brave enough!” Danny had exclaimed when I told her. Sadly, I had to report that the mealworm was in fact pretty tasteless, and certainly didn’t live up to the hype the chickens had created over it. However, it was the one thing that, with the utmost reliability would get them back into their coop.

  Once I’d let the chickens out I would top up their feed and replace their water whilst they had a lovely scratch around in the garden, occasionally making a raspy ‘hoicking’ noise which replicated quite perfectly the sound that an uncouth youth, or just someone who thought no-one else was within earshot, would make at the back of their throat, before ‘gobbing’ onto the ground.

  Sometimes I’d find a chicken-poo-less patch of grass and plonk myself down, and enjoy having them cluck around me and jump on my knees. In the meantime Biscuit and Barrel would usually be watching the goings on with bemusement from their position on the decking at the top of the garden.

  I often spent longer on my visits to see the boys and girls than I’d scheduled, it was just so relaxing. That is until the time came for me to get the chickens back in. Like I said, the mealworm never failed to work, and all I had to do was to walk briskly down to their coop, shaking a plastic beaker full of the stuff and they’d race behind me and scuttle into their run as I scattered it inside.

  However, there were occasions when there wasn’t any mealworm, and I struggled to find a suitable alternative. They certainly weren’t fooled by corn and more often than not weren’t even tempted by the blackberries, which under other circumstances they loved. Somehow I’d usually manage to get three of them in but there was always one who wouldn’t play ball, no matter what I tried. I sometimes spent up to thirty minutes chasing a chicken around the coop, or using any large flattish item within reach to try and guide her back in, whilst at the same time avoiding letting the others out again. I always imagined the neighbours were watching me from their upstairs windows, and laughing at the slapstick comedy sketch taking place in the garden next door.

  Asides from the odd times where the chickens and I were left mealworm-less, they really were no trouble, except that is, on one other occasion. It was a lovely summer’s day and I’d been looking after Biscuit, Barrel and the girls for over a week. During this time Strawberry had been ‘broody’, sitting in the egg-laying section of the chicken house, away from the other chickens and not moving, despite the fact that I would regularly remove the eggs from under her. I don’t know about you, but having someone’s hand rooting around under my bottom would get me moving faster than you could say ‘egg’, but not so Strawberry who remained resolutely attached to her bedding. It appeared that she wasn’t even getting up for food or water, so twice a day I would put a little supply of food by her side and watch while she drank thirstily from the cup of water that I’d hold in front of her beak. After a couple of days I sent a text to Danny who explained that this was fairly normal and not to worry, but I couldn’t help but feel sorry for Strawberry, especially as it was so warm and the other chickens were getting the benefit of some unfettered time in the garden. So during this particular afternoon visit, I resolved to try and help her.

  Having let the others out, I carefully took Strawberry out of the coop and placed her on the grass, hoping that this would bring her out of herself. No sooner had I let her go than Daiquiri charged towards her, and a full-on confrontation took place with both chickens crashing their chests together as they flew up and clashed in mid-air. Dismayed, I quickly intervened, managed to get hold of Strawberry and placed her gently back on her straw, whilst Daiquiri clucked wildly behind me. I grabbed some blackberries I’d had standing by, and gave these to Strawberry along with some water. I felt the best thing I could then do for her was to leave her in peace and keep the others out for a bit longer whilst she regained her composure.

  Daiquiri on the other hand was strutting around the garden like she owned it, and it wasn’t long before I saw her pick something up and scamper sneakily past me, as if trying to avoid me seeing what she had in her beak. However I had seen it and the sight didn’t thrill me. It was a large dead mouse. Glancing up at Biscuit and Barrel I could see that they looked none too impressed either. One of them had presumably caught it, and was possibly saving it for later. Now obviously I’m used to wrestling dead rodents from the jaws of a cat every now and then but I’d never tried the manoeuvre with a chicken, and by the looks of things Daiquiri wasn’t going to give it up easily. One step in her direction and she guessed my intent. Several circuits of the garden later I decided to try the mealworm trick, and threw a few at her feet. This temporarily confused her, causing her to drop the mouse, but no sooner had I picked it up by its slippery tail, then she grabbed it back and made off with it. So I tried again, this time scattering the mealworm well away from her. It worked. Once again she dropped the mouse and headed towards the mealworm, giving me time to get hold of it, this time by its body. Daiquiri was furious, running up to me and jumping up as high as she could in an effort to reach it, despite the fact that by this time I was holding it above my head.

  With all the shenanigans I’d quite forgotten the time, and clutching the mouse and mealworm I made my way back down to the coop at the end of the garden to put the chickens to bed. When I got there I was surprised to see that only Pina and Colada had followed. Making sure they were securely inside, I then headed back up to where Daiquiri defiantly stood. I’d taken her prize, so why should she do me any favours? There was only one thing for it, and with the mouse still in my hand I trailed its tail along the ground by way of bait, which Daiquiri thankfully took, and followed as I slowly backed down the garden. When we reached the coop I was able to open the door without letting the others escape and toss the mouse in, with Daiquiri in hot pursuit. As I turned to go, a thought started niggling at me. My knowledge of a chicken’s dietary requirements wasn’t what it could be and what if a dead mouse wasn’t suitable for their pallet? I wouldn’t be able to rest knowing I could have inadvertently been putting their digestive systems in danger, so decided to try and remove the mouse from the coop. It was only half way down the run and I was sure that if I could manage to get half of me through the door of the coop, then I’d be just about be able to reach it.

  The wired door stood about two feet high and was on the narrow side, and it wasn’t until I got down on my haunches that I realised I mightn’t fit. However, I was quite flexible and had watched those programmes where a female acrobat manages to fit herself into a small Perspex cube, so thought it was worth a go. It turned out it wasn’t. Having got one shoulder and one leg through the open door I found myself well and truly stuck. I could imagine Daiquiri sitting at the back of the run sniggering.

  If I tried standing up I’d almost certainly take the whole chicken house with me. I had no choice but to use the leg inside the coop to push back as hard as possible, fully aware of the
consequences.

  I left Courtney and Danny’s house that day knowing full well that my back and backside would be covered in chicken doo-doo.