Last week I went round to my sisters house whilst she was away, to pick up my printer. It was meant to be a quick trip: open front door, place printer in jumbo Ikea bag, leave house and struggle up to the high street to catch a bus.
Not the case. Bert was home. And he was hungry. And he was lonely. And he made a bee-line for my ankles, so I took pity on him and gave him a bit of fuss, at which point in the space of five minutes he had managed to writhe over just about every square inch of my clothing, sucked on my sleeves, chewed my watch strap, climbed on to the top of my head, chew my ear lobe for comfort (his way of saying Thank You - touching, but very itchy) and ground half a body's worth of cat hair through two layers of clothing.
Poor little Bert. So very cute. Such a tiny little cat. And so lonely whilst Mummy was away for the week. Clearly the neighbour coming round to make a fuss and feed him every day simply wasn't enough, and knowing that my sister would be away for just over three weeks with the same arrangement, I decided to step in.
More. Fool. Me.
The journey to bring him over wasn't too difficult, save for the fact that Bertie turned himself in to a starfish when it came to jamming him in to his pet carrier, and then yowled and mewed all the way up the road and throughout the entire bus journey (which thankfully wasn't very long).
He had a good look round the flat when we arrived, had a bit of a sniff round, had a bit of food, had a scratch on his scratching board, and then alternated between purring on my lap and having another foray in to the kitchen.
When I went to bed he was quite happy, curled up on the couch, no doubt subconsciously growing extra fine cat hairs to shed especially for me.
All was going well. Until 5:30 this morning.
yowl. me-yowl. yowl. meowl. meowl. yowl. yowl. yowl. yowl. yowl.
I buried my head under my pillow and thought "Oh sod off, Bert", grateful that the bedroom door was closed, grateful that I was pretty good at sleeping through anything at 5:30 in the morning.
yowl. yowl. yowl. meyowl. me yowl. yowl. yowl. meow. meow. yowl. yowl.
Crunch? I raised my head from the pillow.
Panic in the streets! Fire in the hole! Bedroom security breached!!
The little git had only shoulder-barged the door. I leaped out of bed, scooping Bert up under his belly and in a single movement catapulted him out of the bedroom door and halfway down the hall like a sinus hand grenade.
You may think this mean, but somehow little Bertie didn't get the hint. Two minutes later: meyowl. yowl. yowl. yowl. yowl.. yowl. yowl. Crunch.
You little f**ker.
Some might argue this point with me, but 5:30 in the morning is absolutely no time to be spiritual. Not with a cat. I jammed the door shut from the inside and ignored his cries for another two hours.
Not that this helped in keeping my bedroom cat hair free. He'd barged his way in to my room when I went out this morning and when I came home was snuggled cosily on one of my pillows. And as I type this from the safety of my blockaded bedroom, he is sitting outside waiting for me. And guess how I know this? Yep, you guessed right.
youwl. yowl. yowl. yowl. meowl. meow. ow. yowl.