**Diary Entry A Feline Misadventure**
The wedding was over, the guests had departed, and my daughter had moved in with her husband. The flat felt empty. After a week of restless silence, my wife and I decided to get a pet. We wanted something to fill the voidsomething to keep our parental instincts sharp, something to feed, train, take for walks, and clean up after. I also secretly hoped that, unlike my daughter, this creature wouldnt backchat, nick my cigarettes, or rustle through the fridge at ungodly hours. We hadnt settled on what to get yetwed decide at the market.
On Sunday, we headed to the pet market. Just inside the entrance, a stall sold adorable guinea pigs. I glanced at my wife.
*”No good,”* she said flatly. *”Ours was land-dwelling.”*
The fish were too quiet, and the parrots, gaudy and noisy, set off her allergy to bird fluff. I fancied a marmosetits antics reminded me of our daughter during her teenage years. But my wife threatened to lie between us like a corpse if I brought it home, so I relented. After all, Id known the monkey all of five minutes, whereas Id grown rather attached to my wife.
That left dogs and cats. Dogs needed constant walks, and cats came with their own headachesI couldnt picture myself hawking kittens outside the Tube station. So, a cat it was.
We spotted him straight away. He lay inside a Perspex tank, surrounded by mewling kittens who kept poking their damp noses into his fluffy belly. The cat slept on, unbothered. A sign hung above the tank: *”Marmaduke.”* The seller spun a sob story about his rough kittenhoodhow the family dog, raised alongside him, had nearly mauled him, leaving the poor thing homeless.
Our chosen one was a handsome grey Persian, though the lack of papers made me wonder if his squashed nose was pedigree or just bad luck. Officially, he was registered as *”Sir Reginald,”* but he answered to *”Marmaduke.”* We took him home.
The journey was uneventfulMarmaduke snuffled quietly under the car seat. In the hallway, my wife, knowing my aversion to bodily mutilation, smirked and asked, *”Youre sure hes not neutered?”*
I stiffened. Not out of prejudicejust that a neutered cat reminded me of poor Quasimodo, disfigured by mans cruelty. I splayed Marmaduke on the landing for a quick inspection. In the dim light, his furry undercarriage was indistinct, his belly matted with clumps. Summoning my inner zoophile, I ran a hand along his nether regions. The cat yowled, but his assets seemed intact.
Later, our daughter dropped by to raid the fridge. She abandoned a half-eaten cake to assault the cat. Together with her mother, they bathed him in baby shampoo, swaddled him, and blow-dried himusing *my* towel, for some reason.
Once presentable, my wife began grooming him, snipping at matted fur while he grumbled. I left them to it and retreated with a beer.
Thena bloodcurdling yowl, a crash, and shattering glass. I rushed in to find my wife on the sofa, rocking and wailing, her hands crisscrossed with scratches. Scissors and tufts of fur littered the floor.
*”What happened?”*
She let out another sob. *”Theyre gone!”*
*”Whats gone?”*
*”Hishis *plums!*”*
*”Whose plums?”*
*”The cats!”*
Now, Im no vet, but I doubted such things just *fell off.*
Through tears and snot, we pieced it together: while trimming a mat between his legs, the cat jerked. The scissors, aimed at the knot, snipped what lay beneath. According to her, shed *”got his plums.”*
The cat had bolted under the sofa, clawing her hands and smashing a vase en route. Frankly, Id have done worse in his placebitten heads off, wrecked the flat. I told her as much. She wailed louder.
Armed with a mop, my daughter and I crawled after him. Deep under the sofa, two amber eyes glowed. He ignored coaxing and sausagesfair enough.
After a struggle, we hauled him out. He was a sightwild-eyed, dusty, his dignity in tatters. Yet as I scratched behind his ears, he relaxed, even purred. Odd, for a newly neutered tom.
Then it hit me. I checked againproperly.
No plums. Never had been.
Marmaduke was a *she.* A rather rotund she.
We didnt go back to throttle the seller. Shared trauma bonds you. And now, instead of Marmaduke, we call her *”Mabel.”*
Yesterday, Mabel had four kittens. Our house is full of children again.
**Lesson:** Always check the plumbing before jumping to conclusions.
