There's gratitude for you
Sep. 14th, 2004 07:40 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
todayiamadaisyNext doors (to the right) are away, which means that I am looking after Mopsy the cat and Mystery the budgie for three weeks (I don't know what the budgie's real name is – I'm not even sure that it's the same budgie I looked after last time – so Mystery will have to do). There's no fence between our house and next door, just a gate, and all I have to do is go through and uncover and feed Mystery each morning and then feed Mopsy and cover Mystery in the evenings.
I uncovered Mystery this morning, and thought it was odd I didn't see Mopsy anywhere. He’s normally asleep in his bed or prowling around the patio or waiting for me near the gate. But it's not completely unusual for him not to be there, so I thought nothing more of it and went home. Half an hour later the phone rang: Joan the nice old lady next door (to the left). "Hello, dear. Do you have a black and white cat?" I said no, I don't, but I'm in loco parentis at the moment, so to speak. "Well, he's on my roof, and, ah, I think you’d better have a look."
So I walked round to Joan's, and there, indeed, was Mopsy, sitting on her roof, being swooped by the pair of aggressive wattlebirds that have recently taken up residence further down the street. He'd worked himself into quite a state, poor love, and couldn’t quite decide if he wanted to mew pathetically or hiss in temper. The wattlebirds sat on the television antenna, and every time Mopsy tried to move, they came at him again, so he was stuck. The little movement he could make showed he had a limp, which explained his reluctance to jump. Now I think that if he got up there, he could get down, but Joan, recently widowed, was a bit upset by the kerfuffle, so I said I'd help him. Joan, still in her maroon velvet dressing gown, got her ladder, and I climbed up, but it wasn't high enough (or I'm not tall enough) for me to do more than pat Mopsy's foot (for which he smacked me) while I stood on the highest rung.
We got him down eventually, with a cunning plan that involved me putting a bowl of cat food on the edge of the roof and Joan flapping a plastic bag to chase away the wattlebirds. I dragged him fighting off the roof and carried him, growling and hissing, back to his house, to the great amusement of the lady waiting at the bus stop across the road. In thanks for the rescue, he bit me when I put him down on his blanket and limped off to hide under the hedge.
Happily, limp and temper were both better when I went to feed him this evening, although my hand and arm are definitely the worse for wear.
I uncovered Mystery this morning, and thought it was odd I didn't see Mopsy anywhere. He’s normally asleep in his bed or prowling around the patio or waiting for me near the gate. But it's not completely unusual for him not to be there, so I thought nothing more of it and went home. Half an hour later the phone rang: Joan the nice old lady next door (to the left). "Hello, dear. Do you have a black and white cat?" I said no, I don't, but I'm in loco parentis at the moment, so to speak. "Well, he's on my roof, and, ah, I think you’d better have a look."
So I walked round to Joan's, and there, indeed, was Mopsy, sitting on her roof, being swooped by the pair of aggressive wattlebirds that have recently taken up residence further down the street. He'd worked himself into quite a state, poor love, and couldn’t quite decide if he wanted to mew pathetically or hiss in temper. The wattlebirds sat on the television antenna, and every time Mopsy tried to move, they came at him again, so he was stuck. The little movement he could make showed he had a limp, which explained his reluctance to jump. Now I think that if he got up there, he could get down, but Joan, recently widowed, was a bit upset by the kerfuffle, so I said I'd help him. Joan, still in her maroon velvet dressing gown, got her ladder, and I climbed up, but it wasn't high enough (or I'm not tall enough) for me to do more than pat Mopsy's foot (for which he smacked me) while I stood on the highest rung.
We got him down eventually, with a cunning plan that involved me putting a bowl of cat food on the edge of the roof and Joan flapping a plastic bag to chase away the wattlebirds. I dragged him fighting off the roof and carried him, growling and hissing, back to his house, to the great amusement of the lady waiting at the bus stop across the road. In thanks for the rescue, he bit me when I put him down on his blanket and limped off to hide under the hedge.
Happily, limp and temper were both better when I went to feed him this evening, although my hand and arm are definitely the worse for wear.
