The Hunt for the Intruder

The challenge to catch the intruder has escalated.

Yesterday we locked the catflap one way so that he couldn’t get out once he’d got in.
In case you’re wondering, Spoilt Only Son had the door opened for him. I regret to say this is not unusual.

Typically, there was no sign of the ginger intruder until at 5 o’clock this morning Mollie thundered down the corridor into the kitchen and we heard a CRASH of the catflap. Silence.

Himself trotted down the corridor clutching a rolled up newspaper muttering, “I’m going to give the bastard a fright.” Fear not, he would never hurt an animal. This is the man who picks up worms in the street and gently lays them to one side.

I lay in bed listening. He went into the kitchen, turned on all the lights, looked round. Then he came back, saying, “bastard’s broken the catflap. Must have a bloody sore head.”

The cat flap is still functioning – as long as you don’t want to lock anyone in or out of course. Those lock bits have been broken off by ginger cat now with a large bruise on his nose.

Earlier this morning I was writing up notes from an interview I did yesterday when I looked outside and who should I see nudging his nose in through the catflap but – yes, you’ve got it.

I thundered down the corridor yelling, “GRRRRRR” or some such deterrent, and emerged in the kitchen closely followed by a bemused Mollie.

Once again no sign of the ginger fella. He must have beat a very hasty retreat.
Still, Moll and I make a great team. Two stroppy women with unruly hair. Felons beware.