THE SAUSAGE THIEF
He simply couldnt ignore that cat. Mainly because the cat would nick things from his little corner shop, but he went about it in such an enchanting fashion that anger never stood a chance. Quite the opposite, in fact.
The shopkeeper found himself awaiting these little heists. Hed have his phone at the ready to film the entire performance, just so he could replay it later for his wife and laugh together as night fell. So, it happened like this
The cat would always sit by the open door for ages, feigning a casual, weary rest as though hed only paused for a breather, meaning no mischief at all. Hed glance about, carefully checking no one was watching. The shopkeeper, naturally, would be hiding in wait behind the big fridge by the back, camera poised.
With feline caution, the cat would slip inside and march directly to the sausages, where hed speed up, snatch a Cumberland or a Lincolnshire from the rack, and bolt outexcept he never got far. His hunger tugged him back, and just a few steps from the shop, hed settle in and start munching.
The shopkeeper would step outside, never too close, and ask:
Tasty, is it?
The cat would look up, giving a firm and honest meow in reply.
Jolly good then, the shopkeeper would say, smiling. Pop round again!
You might wonder about all this. Sausages on a rack, not in a fridge, not even centre stage, and loose links scattered about like treasure on a shelf. But heres the thing: the shopkeeper simply had a big heart.
A gaunt and haggard cat had turned up at his door weeks before, unwilling to come close or accept food from his hands. The man thought up a game to helpat first, he left sausages very near the shop entrance, so the little thief, whom hed named Arthur, could make an honest living out of lifting his food.
Soon, the sausages moved further back each day, nudging Arthur closer and closer to the big counter with the rest of the shops goods. Eventually, the bottom shelf, nearly on the ground, became a proper feeding station.
Arthur could have simply wandered in, picked out a sausage like any respectable cat, and wandered out. But you see, the process was key: the filched sausage was always the tastiest.
Later, the man set up a water bowl by the shop, put out the finest cat food in a generous dish, and even left a plastic box of sand for natures business. Right there, a little dog kennel with a soft tartan blanket was placed, too.
Arthur still wouldnt let anyone near, but he was up for a natter. The shopkeeper would follow him outside for a chat as Arthur chewed. Every so often mid-supper, the cat would glance his way, meowing in response.
But lately, the owner had been pondering a strange question: Arthur had become sleek and well-fed, no longer a scruffy ruffian in need of pilfered sausagesyet, he still stole a couple every day before darting out of sight.
The man tried countless times to follow him round the corner, but Arthur always eluded him. So, the shopkeeper got himself a nifty little camera with a great wide lens that connected to his computer, and one night, he unravelled the mystery.
From the basement window of the old house up the road, out tumbled a ginger kitten, who trembled with anticipation and pounced upon the sausage Arthur delivered.
Tomorrowdo you hear? Tomorrow, you bring them straight home! The shopkeeper’s wife wept with joy as she shouted, but this proved trickier than it sounded. Arthur could now be picked up without much fuss, dozing by the crisps most afternoons, but the kitten? That was another puzzle entirely.
Day after day, through the blink of a camera, the shopkeeper witnessed the little ginger kitten sipping from Arthurs bowl or snoozing in the dog kennel. The moment anyone inched near, hed rocket away, tail straight as an arrow, red blur disappearing into the morning mist.
Then, everything changed one peculiar morning. A strange racket drew the shopkeeper out from behind his till. There, bawling on the threshold, sat the ginger kitten.
Whats wrong, little one? he marvelled.
The kitten sped to him, stared into his eyes, then scampered to the alley behind. The shopkeeper followed with no hesitation.
Behind the house, Arthur lay moaning softly, wounded by a nasty dog bite on his back leg. Hed escaped, but the wound was deep. The kitten pressed his small head to Arthurs side and let out another desperate yowl.
Oh, my word, muttered the shopkeeper, bundled Arthur in his jacket, scooped up the ginger kittenwho wriggled a bit, but wasn’t really botheredand popped him into his blazer pocket. Locking the shop door, he drove off at once.
They spent five hours at the vets, while Arthurs wound was stitched and cleaned. In that waiting room, the shopkeeper and the kitten became fast friends, the latter receiving the name Ember for his fiery coat and spirited antics.
That evening he shut up shop and brought home both the groggy Arthur and little Ember. His wife was over the moon. And whats the first thing a happy Englishwoman does? She rings up every friend she has for a chat full of details and advice, settling in for a long gossip. By the time she was done, the shopkeeper, Arthur, and Ember had claimed all the bedspace.
Not much left for me, is there? she observed wryly. But Ember obligingly slid over, pressed close, then started kneading her with his tiny paws.
Thats how they found their family. Now two fat, spoiled cats sprawled about, hardly recognisable as the alley cats theyd once been. Sometimes Arthur, by old habit, washed Embers fur, and Ember didnt mind one bit.
And across the street, by the cobblers, there now lounged a little grey female cat. The saleswoman in the shoe shop often dashed to the grocers to buy snacks for her. Perhaps shell take the grey home, too.
Perhaps, one day, everyone will find a home. So many cats plucked from the curbside that owning a cat will feel like a treat meted out by queue and application, only for those with the proper training.
Do you think thats possible? Could it happen, in the England of dreams?
