Do you like cats? I can take them or leave them but Ed’s mad about moggies.
He’ll pass the time of day with any passing puss but the real object of his affections is a tubby
old tabby called Bill.
Bill spends most of his time on a cushion in the
window of Ed’s front-room or perched on the compost-heap in the garden, where the smell of the glue factory drifts down among the undergrowth and anaesthetises the few remaining mice.
At night Bill disappears ‘til dawn, when he returns via his cat-flap, to the comfort of his cushion.
It was all the more amazing, therefore, when Ed arrived late one morning and in a state of panic, to announce that Bill had done a bunk!
‘His cushion’s not been slept in,’ he wailed.
‘Don’t you mean, on,’ I enquired tentatively.
‘No, in,’ replied Ed. ‘I had it made like a little sleeping-bag. It gets chilly downstairs at night.’
‘Good grief!’ muttered Hamish, rolling his eyes upwards in disbelief, ‘I’m surprised ye dinna leave the central-heating on fer the wee beastie!’
‘There’s no need,’ said Ed seriously, ‘he’s got his own little hot-water bottle - well, I had to buy him something for his birthday,’ he added defensively, as Hamish stifled a burst of giggling with his sporran.
But all’s well that ends well. Bill turned up safe and sound in the back of the bakery where he’d eaten two day’s supply of pasties! He’d put on so much weight, he couldn’t creep out where he crept in!
See you soon