THE SAUSAGE THIEF
I couldnt help but notice that cat. Mainly, because he was always pilfering goods from my little corner shop. Yet he did it in such a remarkable way that it was simply impossible to be angry. In fact, quite the opposite.
Id find myself eagerly looking forward to the whole show Id even record it all on my phone. Later, Id show the videos to my wife and wed both laugh about it over a cup of tea in the evening. But I digress.
The cat would always sit for ages outside the propped-open shop door, pretending to be out for a rest. Hed look left, then right, making sure no one was about. I would hide myself behind the large fridge, camera at hand, ready to capture the moment.
Eventually he’d tiptoe inside and head straight for the sausage shelf. As soon as he reached his target, hed dash, grab a frankfurter or a Cumberland sausage, and shoot off outside again. Yet, his hunger stopped him from making a full getaway he would only get a few feet down the pavement before stopping to tuck in.
Id step out and, without getting too close, Id call out,
Tasty, is it?
The cat would pause, look at me and give a contented meow.
Thats grand, Id reply.
Youre welcome any time.
Now, you might be wondering about the sausages why were they always left out, not in the chiller, or at least somewhere less conspicuous, and why a few bits lay about, separated? The answers rather simple.
Ive always had a soft spot for animals. The poor cat arrived at the shop scrawny, battered, and clearly starving. But no matter what, he flatly refused to approach people or eat out of my hand. So I had to get creative.
At first, I left a few sausages near the door, so that he Id named him Oscar, after the famous English Oscar could steal them himself. It felt more like hed earned them that way.
It worked. Gradually, I placed the sausages further and further inside, until they were on the bottom shelf by the other groceries, right by the floor. Thus, Oscars own dining nook came to be.
By now, Oscar could have simply strolled in, chosen what he liked, and left freely, but that wasnt the point anymore. To him and, truthfully, to me the thrill was in the act. Stolen food just tasted better.
After a while, I set up a water bowl at the shops side, a generous dish of proper cat food, and a box filled with sand for him to use. I even dragged over an old dog kennel and lined it with a warm blanket, just next to the shop so hed have somewhere to sleep.
Oscar still wouldnt let anyone touch him, but hed often engage in proper conversations with me. Whenever he ran off with his prize, Id follow and chat a bit while he munched, and Oscar would give me his opinions between bites.
But then, I started noticing something odd Oscar was putting on weight, looking healthy and glossy, yet he never stopped pinching sausages, always nipping off with a couple each day. I was intrigued. Where was he taking them?
No matter how I tried to follow him, Oscar would always give me the slip. So, being rather determined (and somewhat nosy), I installed a small camera with a good view and connected it to my laptop in the back office.
One day, I finally unravelled the secret. From a basement window around the corner, a tiny ginger kitten clambered out and gobbled up the sausage Oscar had delivered.
The next evening, my wife was in tears as she insisted, You must bring them home, both of them, do you hear? Tomorrow!
But this was easier said than done. Oscar had started sleeping right in the middle of the shop, so catching him was simple the kitten, though, was another matter entirely.
Day after day, I watched on the camera as the little ginger kit would only come to drink from Oscars bowl or to nap on the blanket, never letting anyone near at the slightest noise, hed shoot off like a ginger flash.
Then came the day everything changed. I was drawn by a peculiar sound coming from the entrance. No customers were around, so I left the till and went to investigate.
There, right on the doorstep, sat the tiny ginger kitten, wailing for all he was worth.
Whats the matter, little chap? I asked, puzzled.
He ran up, looked me straight in the eye, then darted out, pausing around the corner. I followed immediately and found Oscar lying there, moaning. A dog had bitten his back right leg, and although Oscar managed to escape, the wound bled badly.
The ginger kitten nudged Oscar with his head and wailed again.
Oh, you poor souls, I said.
I took off my coat, wrapped Oscar in it, picked up the ginger kit (who now offered no resistance) and tucked him in my jacket pocket. I pulled the shop door shut, hopped into the car, and headed straight to the vet.
We spent nearly five hours there as the vet cleaned and stitched up Oscars leg. During that time, the ginger kitten now named Alfie, as he just seemed an Alfie through and through turned out to be an absolute delight: playful, affectionate and positively charming.
That evening, I brought home Oscar, still groggy from the anaesthetic, and Alfie. My wife was over the moon. And what does a blissful Englishwoman do? She rings her friends, of course. Its a lengthy process, full of story-telling, advice, and laughter.
When she eventually retired to bed, Oscar, Alfie and I were already sprawled out and snoring.
Charming! she commented, eyeing our sleeping trio.
Where am I supposed to sleep?
With much fuss, Alfie politely shuffled across, then snuggled up to her, kneading her with tiny paws. Thus, our house became theirs.
Now two great, stately cats lounge around and bear no resemblance to the scrappy strays they once were. Oscar still, out of habit, gives Alfie a lick now and then not that Alfie ever minds.
Meanwhile, across the street near the shoe shop, a diminutive grey cat has set up home. The saleswoman there regularly pops into my shop for tins of food for the newcomer.
Maybe shell take that one home, too? Perhaps, one day, everyone will give a stray a home and cats will become so rare youll have to queue up and pass a course just to adopt one.
What do you reckon? Could it really happen?
