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So, we have more or less been adopted by Arnold The Cat recently. Mostly because I tend to leave the back door open (Mmm, nature) and Arnold likes being fuzzled and so wanders up to my room when I’m home.

LoneCat, love of my life and co-inhabitant of this particular version of domestic bliss, is allergic to cats. Arnold, recognising this, prefers to sit on her bed if the doors open, and glare at her when she isn’t stroking him. Which is – obviously – always.

Thus the essential drama is maintained. LoneCat verses Real Cat. LoneCat is well trained. As she has mentioned she occasionally lets Arnold use the house as a thoroughfare, and today this ritual was once again performed. Arnold batted at the cat flap (installed by previous owners, one-way locked by us. Cats can get out, but not in), LoneCat let him in, failing to notice that it was pelting with rain outside.

Arnold, finding himself in a warm place in which he was not actively being rained upon, felt that this was a place in which he could remain. Specifically, he felt that halfway up the spiral staircase was the ideal place from where a small, cute, white and grey splotched feline could lay and carefully watch all that passed below. LoneCat – who couldn’t touch the cat – then tried to convince it vocally that this wasn’t a good place to be, and out in the nice, fresh rain was the ideal place for the well appointed feline this summer.

The cat didn’t swallow this. Instead, it batted at one of the yellow plastic ducks we have on our stairs for reasons I one day hope to explain. The cavalry – that is Me – was called in. I attempted to talk Arnold down from the stairs. I tried pushing, guiding it with strokes and fuzzles, and lifting it up. This was repulsed with tactics such as ignoring me, moving out of the way, and clinging to the carpet like industrial strength Velcro.

I used the heater to blow hot air at it, and it hid in an Amazon box. When I picked up the Amazon box, it went into the kitchen. I guided it out of the kitchen and it made a break for my bedroom – within the clutter of which a small feline could hide undetected for decades – whereupon the cat tripped on a rubber duck and hit the stairs face first.

At this point I could probably have picked up the stunned pet without any problem, save for the minor fact that I was trying not to laugh to much to do anything much. There then followed a short period of the cat attempting to pretend nothing had happened, whilst pointing out that it had a hurt paw now, and would quite like sympathy.

We left it. Score one to the cat.

Obviously, a little while after we left it alone it left of it’s own accord. It is, after all, a cat.

Once more with spellcheck

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