Home life
Pet worries
Alice Thomas Ellis
Anote came through the door the other day to tell us that a small cat from further up the road was missing, and asking us to look out for it. 'Missing' is an awful word, rather worse than 'dead'. There have been many such notices over the years posted on garden gates and lamp- posts and they have all served to increase my innate pessimism and deep mistrust of certain sections of the human race glove-, muff- and tippet-makers for a start. I read only recently that the fashion for the Russian look has resulted in a fall in the incidence of black cats, who then appear in a new guise — as collars round the necks of the beau monde, or whoever it is these days who keeps up with the fashion. (In Cam- den Town it seems to be every woman for herself, and none of us is likely to appear in Vogue.) That's beside the point. Anthony Gray- ling told me that there are already remark- ably few pure black cats in England be- cause our ancestors suspected them of consorting with witches and burned them and drowned them and stoned them. Both our cats are black, but Cadders has a white bib, and if you grab Puss, who is at first sight as black as your hat, and peer under her chin there will be seen a small white spot. I don't suppose these tiny flaws would be enough to deter the determined accessory-maker and I contemplated rub- bing chewing-gum into their fur, or dusting them with Harpic to take the shine out. On further reflection and closer inspection I decided it probably wasn't necessary since both are unashamed moggies and their coats could never be mistaken for mink.
Then I remembered a Chinese take- away of some years ago, and a chicken with very unusual vertebrae for its species. We studied these bones for some time, surmis- ing, before we threw them away. Nobody said much, but we never returned to that particular restaurant. They eat dogs too in some parts of the world, and guinea pigs. The third son found a lost dog the other day — or rather the dog found us. I was flying round in a panic because the daugh- ter was — not lost, but late: an hour late, which in my book is much the same as lost.
I had left the gate and the bottom door open while I dithered on the corner, wringing my hands and peering to left and right, and the dog strolled into the house wearing the confident and pleased express- ion of an invited guest expecting a good time. Part of my panic was due to the fact that a car was waiting to take us off to an appointment, so when the daughter finally appeared (she'd got a few wrong buses) we shot off without further delay. When we got back I asked what had happened to the dog — a golden Labrador, as it happens and a thrilling tale unfolded.
It had had a collar with the name of its owner on it, a reverend gentleman. So the son very sensibly went round to the church for further details and then telephoned the good Father, who was very startled to hear that his pet was at large, as it was supposed to be staying with friends in the district. He gave the son the address, and the son, with the dog in tow on a pair of braces or a belt or something, went round to check it out. The door to the flat was smashed open and household effects were strewn all over the place. The burglar had been, and the dog had taken the opportunity to slip out for a walk. I know there's a moral somewhere in all this, but at the moment it escapes me.
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