THE SAUSAGE THIEF
He couldn’t help but notice that cat. Quite simply because the cheeky thing had been thieving from his little village grocers. But the way he did itit was impossible to be angry. In fact, it was the highlight of his day.
The shopkeeper would wait, half-gleeful, for the drama to begin, phone at the ready. Every evening, hed show his wife the latest recording, and together, they’d fall about laughing, their troubles forgotten for a moment.
Heres how it always went: The cat would settle outside the open door, affecting an air of complete indifference, as if he was simply taking a break from important cat business. Then he’d glance about, making absolutely sure the coast was clear. The shopkeeper, for his part, would hide behind the massive chiller near the till and record everything.
The cat would slip in, tail low, and make a beeline for the sausages. Nearing his prize, hed suddenly break into a jog, snatch either a Cumberland or a chunky chipolata, and dart out the door. But hunger was stronger than caution.
He never made it far. Just a few paces from the shop, the cat would stop and devour his loot like it was a Michelin-starred meal. The shopkeeper would wander out and call, not too close so as not to spook his little bandit.
Tasty, is it? hed ask.
The cat would look up, give a short, approving meow.
Splendid, the shopkeeper would reply. Drop by again, wont you?
Perhaps youre wondering. Sausages just there, out from the chiller, not even on displaywhat sort of shop runs like that? And why? The answer is simple.
The shopkeeper, Alan Barker, had a generous heart. Hed noticed the catonce thin as a rake, coat mattedlurking about. But any attempt to approach him or hand-feed was rebuffed with a hiss and a hasty retreat. So Alan concocted a plan.
At first, he left the sausages by the threshold, just where the cat, whom hed dubbed Oliver, could nab them if hungry enougha sort of honest thievery, if such a thing exists.
It worked. Bit by bit, Alan moved the sausages deeper into the shop, until eventually, they ended up right on the lower shelf of the deli counter, nearly at floor levela secret feeding station, camouflaged amid proper products.
In truth, Oliver could have simply come in, chosen what he fancied, and taken it, but that wasnt the point. The act of stealing made the treat doubly delicious.
Alan soon set up a proper arrangement outside: a big bowl filled with fresh water, the finest dry cat food, and even a plastic tray of sand. Not far off, he placed a small doghouse lined with a woolly old blanket.
Still, Oliver, wary as ever, trusted no one up close. But he rather liked a good chat.
So, Alan would step outside after each heist to pass the time of day. Between bites, Oliver would cast him an inscrutable glance and let out the odd meow in replya dialogue of sorts.
Yet lately, Alan was puzzled. Oliver was rounder, sleek of coat, and clearly not in dire need of sausages. Yet each day, without fail, hed bolt out with twosometimes threesausages. Then vanish around the corner.
Alan tried to follow, but Oliver, slippery as an eel, always gave him the slip.
So Alan installed a small cameranothing illegal, just a clever little one mounted in the windowwhich sent a feed straight to his back office.
And one day, his curiosity was rewarded. Out of the dusty cellar window of the house just past the shop came a ginger kitten. Shivering with excitement, the little scrap pounced hungrily upon the sausage Oliver had delivered.
The mystery solved, Alan’s wife, Martha, wept in the kitchen that night. Tomorrow, Alan. Do you hear me? Tomorrow you bring them home!
But getting both cats indoors was not so simple. By now, Oliver was half-domesticatedwould snooze in the paper aisle right after opening hoursbut as for the ginger kitten, she was wild as a hare and gone in a flash if you got near.
Day after day, Alan watched on the camera as the little one crept to drink from Olivers water bowl or dozed in the doghouse, but any closer and shed shoot off, tail high, a fiery comet.
Everything changed one quiet afternoon. Alan was startled by a commotion at the door. No customers, just the ginger kitten crying at the top of her tiny lungs.
Whats the matter, little one? Alan knelt.
She trotted over, looked him square in the eye, and paced towards the back lane. Alan followed. Rounding the corner, he found Oliver, mewling and weak. Hed been bitten on the hind leg by a neighbourhood terrier; hed limped clear, but the wound was ugly.
The kitten pressed her small head to Olivers side, as if pleading for help.
Oh, you poor souls, whispered Alan.
He whipped off his jacket, bundled Oliver in it, scooped the ginger kittenwho made not even a fussinto his pocket, locked up the shop, and sped them all to the vets in his dusty old Ford.
For five hours they waited as Olivers leg was treated and stitched. In that time, Alan and the ginger kitten made fast friendshe named her Ember for her blazing little face. She was lively and affectionate, once reassured all was well.
That night, Alan carried home groggy Oliver and little Ember. Martha, overjoyed, did what any happy woman wouldcalled every friend in Surrey for a heartfelt, rambling update.
By the time shed hung up, Alan, Oliver, and Ember were sprawled in peaceful sleep across the bed.
My word, Martha tutted. Where am I supposed to sleep?
But Ember shuffled over obligingly, wriggled up to her side, and pressed tiny paws against her.
And so, their home grew by two. Now settled, lazy, and sleek, neither cat resembled their scrappy former selves. Sometimes, Oliver, recalling the old days, would groom Ember with slow, thoughtful licks, and she never protested.
Meanwhile, opposite the shop, by the cobbler’s, another little straya petite grey femalehad taken up residence. The shoe shop assistant came by daily to buy her dinner from Alan.
Perhaps shell take her home. Perhaps, one day, every stray will find their way indoors until there are none left, and cats will be as rare as diamondsadopted only after waiting lists and special courses.
What do you think? Could it happen?
