Jock the Lock’s car cat-astrophe

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Well, what a week that was. It started well, with me shirking my responsibilities at Shoogly Towers as Monday was the last day of a five-day break with our beloved Aunty Rupert in Yorkshire.

Much wine was consumed, and nights spent in idle conversation about music and garden furniture and The Old Days.

The YMs hate The Old Days. Whenever the grown-ups mention The Old Days, they have usually had a couple of glasses of wine, their eyes glaze over and they drone on and on about times and adventures past.

To the YMs, this meander down memory lane is just deadly dull. Unless it involves something that makes the grown-ups look daft, like getting locked in a loo or looking at their wedding photies from 1985. This is very, very entertaining for YMs.

Oh, how they guffaw at the perms and the meringue dresses, and the hee-yoo-ge hat nana wore. They point in wonder at the woman in the big, white dress and say: “Who’s that?” Erm, that’s your mum.

We got away with a fair old dose of The Old Days as Aunty Rupert has taken the first step on the road to being the stereotypical Old Lady With a House Full of Cats by getting a cat. Singular.

As we have a house full of dogs, this is a great novelty.

And we are never likely to have a cat at Shoogly Towers, not whilst Jock the Patterdale is still alive. To say a cat at Shoogly Towers would not have long to enjoy its new home would be an understatement.

The only way a cat could survive more than a few seconds at ST would be if it could get down the drive and over the gate faster than Jock. So sadly, as Patterdales can live up to about 18 and regularly make it to 15, the Shoogly nippers are going to have a long wait for Tibbles.

Playing hide ’n’ seek with a nervous rescue cat for five days kept the YMs busy. Cheaper than a video game and quieter than them arguing over who gets to sit nearest as they watch TV. Purrfect.

The week continued with a trip to Dumfries & Galloway with my friend, The Lovely Yvette, to pick up her new family dog from a rescue centre there. The sun shone, glinting on a super-still and tranquil St Mary’s Loch as we drove by. Welcome home, Molly.

And to end the week, again on a pet theme, the afore-mentioned Jock brought it to a close by locking me out – yes, locking me out – of a courtesy car on Sainsbury’s garage forecourt.

One minute I was putting the fuel in, the next trying to open the door whilst looking into his beady, unblinking eyes as he stood with his paws on the windowsill. With his paw on the button. Thanks, Jock.

Sadly, although Patterdales are smart as paint, he wasn’t bright enough to unlock it. Necessitating Mr E leaving work, jumping into Gamford’s car and driving to Morebattle for spare keys and thence to Sainos to rescue me.

Thanks, Jocky Boy.