THE SAUSAGE THIEF
I simply couldnt overlook that cat. Not just because he kept pinching from my little corner shop, but because of the brilliant way he went about ityou just couldnt be angry with him. In fact, quite the opposite.
Id actually started looking forward to his operations. Id record the whole show on my phone, and then, in the evenings, my wife and I would watch it together and have a good laugh.
Heres how it all went down.
The cat would sit for ages by the open front door, acting as though hed merely stopped for a breather, absolutely nothing suspicious about him at all. Hed cast a careful glance about, checking to see that no one was near. All the while, Id be hiding behind the big fridge, capturing every moment.
Eventually, the cat would stride in, heading straight for the counter where the sausages were kept. Thats when hed break into a quick dash, snatch a sausage or a frankfurter, and bolt for the exitbut hunger always got the better of him. Just a few metres from the shop, hed plonk himself down and tuck in.
Id step outside, keeping my distance, and call out, Tasty, is it?
The cat would look up at me and meow in agreement.
Well, Im glad to hear it, Id reply.
Feel free to pop in again, old boy.
Now, you may be puzzled. Why sausages on the counter, not in the fridge, and just lying about for the taking? The answer is simple.
Soft heart, thats why.
When the cat first appeared, he was terribly thin and worn out, but he flatly refused to come near me, or take food from my hand. So I came up with a workaroundsetting sausages by the door, nice and easy for him, honest as you like. I even gave him a name: Oliver. It suited this dashing thief.
Gradually, I inched the sausages further into the shop, until at last, they ended up on a low shelf along with the other cold meatsa little feeding point just for Oliver, right at floor level.
He could have simply strolled in, picked what he wanted and left. But its all about the thrillthe nicked ones taste miles better.
In time, I put a water bowl outside, an extra-large dish with the best cat food, and even a plastic tub filled with sand for a loo. Not far off, I erected a little doghouse with a warm blanket inside.
Oliver remained wary and wouldnt be handled, though he did seem to enjoy a good chat. After every robbery, Id follow him out and wed have a bit of a natter, pausing only while he gobbled his treat, and then responding with a sideways glance or chirpy miaow.
But recently, a puzzle began tickling at my mindOliver had grown positively plump and shiny, yet he still nicked sausages twice a day and dashed away behind the corner. No matter how I tried, I couldnt see where he went; he always got away.
So, I bought a little camera, one with a decent angle, which linked up to my shop computer. One day, I finally learned the secret of Oliver.
From a little basement window around the corner, a ginger kitten emerged, practically pouncing on the sausage Oliver had brought.
The moment my wife found out, she scolded me through tears, Tomorrow! Did you hear me? Tomorrow, you bring them homeboth of them!
Easier said than done. While Oliver would snooze right in the middle of my shop these days, catching that little ginger was no simple feathe wouldnt let anyone near him.
Days rolled by. Watching on the camera, I saw the ginger kitten drinking from Olivers bowl and occasionally curling up in the doghouse, but bolt like lightning if I so much as looked his way.
Everything changed one day when, from behind the counter, I heard an odd noise at the shop door, and with no customers about, I went to investigate.
There on the threshold, sat the ginger kitten, yowling his head off.
Whats wrong, little one? I asked, startled.
He darted to me, his eyes pleading, and led me away. Behind the house, I found Oliver, whimperinghis back leg bleeding from a dog bite. He had got away, but the wound was deep.
The kitten pressed his little head against Oliver, mewling desperately.
Oh, heavens, I muttered.
I shrugged off my jacket to gently gather up Oliver, then scooped up the kittenwho, surprisingly, didnt squirmin my blazer pocket. I locked up the shop and drove straight to the vet.
We spent five hours there as Olivers leg was stitched and cleaned. In that time, the gingera cheeky, playful chap I called Sparkbecame fast friends with me.
That evening, I took Oliver and Spark home, Oliver still dazed from the anaesthetic, Spark lively as ever.
My wife was over the moon. And what do Englishwomen do when theyre delighted? Ring every friend theyve got for a nice long natter, sharing every detail and story.
When shed finally finished, the three of usme, Oliver, and Sparkwere sprawled out on the bed fast asleep.
Well, this is a sight, she remarked. And where am I supposed to lay my head?
Of course, Spark gladly wriggled over, pressing his little paws to her until she smiled.
So thats how they found their home.
Now, two large, contented cats live with us, nothing like the street scrappers they used to be. Sometimes, Oliver will groom Spark, and Spark never seems to mind.
Just across the road, near the cobblers shop, a tiny grey cat has been making herself at home. The woman from the shoe shop is often popping in to buy her treats from our little store.
Perhaps shell bring the grey one home one day too.
Maybejust maybeone day all the cats will have found a home, safe and warm, and the day might come when cats are so rare youll need a spot on a waiting list and a special licence just for one.
Who knows? Stranger things have happened.
But if theres one lesson Ive learnedits that kindness, given freely, often returns in the most unexpected and heartwarming ways. Thats what makes this little shop of mine truly special.