Last night was boisterously inclement, with squalls of abrasive rain lashing at our windows. Shadow clearly decided to have a rare night in, sparing us the morning tally of dead voles laid out like furry sausages behind our couch. However, there are unintended consequences to not venturing out.
I opened the door to my study, powering up the computers, and then took a cup of tea upstairs for Clare. When I returned there were messy cat-prints in the kitchen and a light dusting of soil around the plant pot in my room. A fugitive vole? Or a cat starting to dig, but disturbed in the act?
A little later, after Clare had come down and cleaned up after "her cat", we noticed it scrabbling around in the pile of Sunday Times sections Clare had not yet gotten around to reading.
Like a shot, Clare grabbed it and carried its semi-resisting black form to the kitchen door where it was unceremoniously booted out. She rushed back to the living room where we watched Shadow scamper down to the back of the garden and into the bushes, where it earnestly started digging away.
Having completed its toiletries, it cleaned its paws and popped back into the house, where it promptly fell asleep.
We spoil that animal.
Note: we brainstormed a number of plant-pot ideas: a fine net over the top; electrification; a scattering of drawing pins over the surface; chili powder. Cruelty and humour were ever accomplices. I think we have settled on a layer of gravel.