Hey love, youve got to hear the wild story from Aunt Margarets cottage down in the Cotswolds. So, Mrs. Lacey, the neighbour, stopped dropping by lately. She started whispering that the old ladys gone a bit crackers in her golden years because shes apparently keeping a wolverine or some sort of werecreature in the garden.
It all began when Margaret found a tiny grey kitten skulking around her vegetable patch. She lives alone, a sweet soul, and she scooped the little thing up straight away. A sudden rain started, and she was shivering like a leaf. Her old coal stove was roaring, the logs snapping merrily, and soon the kitten was snugged up, warming its paws. Margaret poured it a saucer of milk, and the little furball drank it all, purring away. Suddenly she wasnt so lonely; there was someone to chat to.
The kitten, whom she started calling Whiskers, curled up and listened to Margaret humming old folk tunes while she knitted socks and mittens. Business at the little village shop was always steady, so Whiskers grew into a proper cat, hunting mice and rats like a pro. He knew every inch of the garden, leapt up trees and swooped back down whenever he spotted Margaret. She never gave a second thought to his odd habits.
Soon she was calling him affectionately Whiskers. Lacey swore shed seen a wolverine, not a cat, but Margaret just laughed it off. One hot summer day, while she was picking strawberries and blackberries, she heard a hiss. Looking down, she spotted a massive adder coiled on the path. Her legs felt like jelly age and all and she knew she couldnt jump onto the table to shoo it away.
Before she could even think, Whiskers sprang at the snake, snapped it in a flash, then started to play with it, even hauling the dead thing up a tall oak for good measure. The snake later fell onto Laceys yard, hissing like a pig, but Whiskers snatched it back and ignored her screams.
After that, Lacey stopped visiting, spreading the tale that Margaret had lost her mind because she kept a wild beast in the house. Margaret didnt mind the cats impressive size at all; he was her favourite. Shed stroke his fur, and hed curl up on the rug by her bed, dozing away.
Whiskers loved roaming the tall grass, sometimes even napping there in the heat, but he always trotted home when dusk fell. One night Margaret dozed off, leaving the kitchen window halfajar she knew Whiskers liked his midnight strolls. Through that opening two local drunks, Tom and Dave, slipped in. Theyd heard shed just started getting her pension about £150 a week and thought shed have cash lying around. They shoved a towel over her mouth, trying to keep her quiet, then started demanding money.
Margaret, gagged and shaking, could only whimper. One of the lads Tom tried to pin her down, but the moment she let out a scream, the rag fell from her mouth. The place went into chaos. Suddenly a huge, shaggy silhouette burst through the window. It was the old farm cat legend a sort of household spirit the locals call the Bogey. One of the thieves, halfpanicking, shouted, Bob, is that you? Did you find something in the neighbours house? She just got her pension!
The massive black cat lunged at the first thug, sinking its claws into his throat, then leapt at the second, pinning him by the eyes. He squealed like a pig. Good grief, what a nasty spirit! someone muttered. Its green eyes glowed in the dim light as it darted back and forth. Margaret, heart racing, yanked the towel off and slammed the light switch.
She instantly recognised the two intruders. Help! she yelled, and every window in the lane lit up. The neighbours burst in, eyes widening at the gruesome scene: two drunkards sprawled on the floor, one with his face torn, the other clutching his throat, blood splattering everywhere. Margaret sat on the bed, clutching Whiskers, who hissed and barred anyone from getting close.
Remembering Lacey, they realised thered been a third accomplice. The lads scattered, hunting him down. Hed taken refuge in the village sauna, hoping to slip away. They beat the wits out of him, retrieved the stolen cash a few hundred pounds and returned it to Lacey. They all agreed never to call the police; theyd handle it themselves.
The third bloke was warned, Dont ever try to mess with my cat again. He stammered, Its not a cat its a MHN! Margaret snapped a hand across his face. You miserable wretch, you dare insult my Whiskers? she fumed. Youre the one whos a scoundrel!
Anyway, thats the whole crazy night. If you liked the tale, drop a like and let me know what you think!
