Stink

Our cat is pretty fussy and frankly crap.  He finds the whole idea of a cat flap slightly demeaning: much better to sit at the front door and meow until some fool opens it.  In fact, the device is only really there to cover the selfish inconvenience of when we’re out, and then only as a last resort.  If only all the other cats in the neighbourhood felt the same way.  But oh no.  They love it.  In and out, in and out.  There’s generally some food around and somewhere nice to sleep.  Gizmo’s attitude to the visitors is one of aristocratic disdain-cum-cowardice: if they don’t interrupt his snooze on our bed and we still feed him, then, actually, he is not at all bothered.  Except last night, the visitors  decided to take it one step further.  Have you ever smelt cat spray?  Good God it reeks.  It hums. It stinks. It rips the lining from your nostrils.  And, it reduces you to crawling around on all fours and sniffing like a loon to find the stuff  I had a fruitless search before needing to catch our trains.  Twenty minutes later a call from T.  She’s found the source  Her bag.  And in a packed commuter train, the ideal place for the discovery.  Nice.  And unusually easy to find a seat, apparently.