I don’t want you to get the wrong idea about me. It’s not every evening as I travel home that I contemplate whether or not to go for a run, but every time I do exactly the same process of prevarication ensures. The ebb and flow of resolve to do so against the search for any number of reasons not to can occupy me right up to the moment I go out the front gate in my running kit and press the button on my Garmin. Is that a rain cloud on the horizon I see? Would Sophie like me to water the tomatoes in the green house? Has that dustbin been brought in yet? Perhaps the electric gate will malfunction and refuse to open. All of these and many more have allowed me to abandon my plan to run with self-esteem preserved and I have been able to settle down instead to some salted roasted peanuts from Lidl and a glass of my favourite tipple this summer, Muscadet Fildefer, Domaine Sauvion 2015.
Earlier this week I made my way back from the office thinking I really ought to nip out for a quick four miler. The train was on time for a change. It was a beautiful evening and as I swung into the drive I couldn’t imagine anything was going to divert me from my mission. I marched through the front door full of intent only to be met by an ashen faced Sophie, a bedraggled looking miniature dachshund at her feet and an entirely new excuse not to torture myself.
At this point, if you are a cat lover or even a touch faint of heart, you might wish to skip down to all the good research links below.
For months now a substantial fluffy white cat has made our garden its home for large parts of the day. He featured in my absolutely cracking April Fools joke this year when I persuaded each of Sophie, Hen and Lottie in turn, as they came down for breakfast, that he was lying on the sofa in the study. To be fair to him, as far as I know, he has never actually been in the house although he appeared at our bedroom window in the early hours one morning. He was a pain. We had no idea where he came from, but we knew there was no point in finding out. This cat lived by its own rules. His appearance would set the dogs off every blinking time. Barking furiously the four of them would rush in the cats direction. And on every occasion Tipex, as we named him, would turn and face them down with an admirable nonchalance. If more was needed, a hiss or a sweep of his paw would send the dogs into retreat and they’d continue their barking from a safe distance with Tipex eyeing them disdainfully. On Wednesday however it seems he was caught napping on a fence. I’ll spare you the gory details. Sophie witnessed the whole thing. It was noisy and messy. She tried to intervene, but ultimately it proved futile. Humphry, the ginger miniature dachshund, was very much involved and had to be taken to the vets for stitches to various wounds he had sustained. Weasel, Bob’s dog, had a nasty scratch above her eye. And Fertie, the other dachshund, was bitten through the lip. But Tipex, I’m sad to say, came off a bit worse than the dogs.
So it was that instead of a run that evening I was despatched on another form of torture around the village to trace the cat’s owner. I found him at the fourth port of call. He was about 6ft 4 and came to the door in shorts, bare chested and shaven haired. Typical. Just my luck. I noticed, as I struggled to the find the words I had been rehearsing as I roamed about the village, that he had a magnificent tattoo on his heart. The meeting went quite well all things considered. My opening line, naturally, had been to ask each of the houses I called on if they owned a big hairy white cat. There was a naughty wee imp sitting on my shoulder urging me to say now I’d found him “Well you don’t anymore” but I slapped that down sensibly. No. Tim couldn’t have been more charming though when I offered to bring poor Tipex round to him he asked if I wouldn’t mind disposing of the body myself. We shook hands pretty much as new best friends and I wandered home quite relieved that we had done the right thing, that I hadn’t had to go for a run, and very much in need of some nuts and a large glass of Muscadet. I believe I polished off a whole bottle.
Have a good weekend. Mine will be spent collecting Lottie from Stansted late Saturday afternoon, driving four hours to Cholmondeley Castle ( pronounce that if you will ), sleeping in a tent, and cheering on the Newmarket & Thurlow dressage team in the National Pony Club Championships the following day. Deep joy.
Before you feel too sorry for me I’m out of here shortly and there’s no run on the horizon this evening. Home alone just Sophie and me. A couple of steaks on the barbeque and a bottle of Palmer ’95 lined up ready and waiting.
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