Sometimes I used to wonder why there was a cat flap in our back door. We did not possess any cats, after all. Mr. Mhor and I lived a quiet life, undisturbed by felines.
Imagine our surprise, therefore, when a large ginger tom started to wait outside in the alleyway.
I daresay he thought we had unlimited supplies of cat treats and only needed an actual cat to appear so that we could use them up.
This was not true, of course. However, Tam (as we christened him) still came to sit outside our back door on a daily basis.
Shortly afterwards Tam’s wife appeared. Or maybe she was his sister. I do not know. Whatever, she strolled past Tam and sat down in our kitchen. Every day. Possibly she was checking up on him in case he was being unfaithful to her.
I bought some cat milk and Tam’s wife/sister/mother-in-law realised immediately that she had a sucker on her hands.
She came every day and we named her Cheilidh. After a fortnight or so I made the fatal tactical error of buying some pouches of cat food.
Word spread among the local cat population.
In ten days we accumulated a further two cats, who could not be persuaded to leave. By then I had bowed to the inevitable and bought more cat food and some bowls for them.
They were strays. I advertised locally and nobody wanted them. They were not microchipped, either, and all were unloved and uncared for.
Enter Buster and McVicar. (Cheilidh was the ginger and white cat, Buster is the tabby and McVicar the tortoiseshell with the permanent look of surprise on her face.)
Mr. Mhor’s contribution to the proceedings was to whack open the cat flap with a large hammer.
Tam (who still used to stick to his post at the back door faithfully until we moved to Scotland) was a sleek, good-natured and well-fed ginger cat. I blame him for turning the first Mhor Cottage into an unofficial cats’ home. Mr. Mhor (needless to say) blames me.
The Robbing Butcher has not expressed a view.