We recently went to France for a long weekend, and arranged for the girls to go to the local cattery for the duration of our absence.

The cats like the cattery. They don't mind going in the car, and when they are in their carry boxes they just settle down for the journey.

So, you'd imagine that there could be no problem in rounding up the cats, putting them in their boxes, and getting them to the cattery.

Wrong. Fudge and Meg vanish. We've learned to shut the bathroom door (to stop them squeezing through the seemingly too small gap to get under the bath), and the spare room door (to stop them disappearing to the far corner under the bed) before starting to try and collect them, so by the time they realise what's happening, their favourite bolt-holes are unavailable.

The carry boxes had been sat out in the kitchen for a few days, and there were no obvious signs of our going away. I arrived home from work to find that Fudge knew - she was already stationed in the unreachable far corner under the bed defying me to try and get her out.

Meg was sat by the back door, scrunched up hoping I wouldn't notice her, and that I'd open the back door before I saw her, thus allowing her to make a break for freedom. Scooping her up I discovered that she had developed about 26 legs as she tried desperately to leap out of my arms.

Into the box - not too bad so far. My black top is now coated in ginger hair, and have a few new scratches, but at least Meg has been caught. 1 down 2 to go.

Caramel is always very good. She doesn't hide, but instead curls up on the bed and hopes you will let her stay there. So quick scooping up of Caramel, and into the box.

This is all going well, plenty of time left, and 2 cats caught - just Fudge to get.

Fudge is still sat in the far corner under the bed in the spare room.

I unbolt and unlock the backdoor loudly. I hear the sound of cat paws on the stairs and Fudge trots into the kitchen. I go to grab her, and she turns tail and flees back up the stairs, and back under the bed, into the far corner.

I try rattling biscuits - no response. I try the door ploy again - no response. So I head upstairs to the spare room and start moving stuff around under the bed to try and reach Fudge. She moves to the other corner.

I sit back, and manage to spear my hand on a brand new pencil that has managed to poke itself point upwards through a bag on the floor. Ow....

So, now I'm there, blood pouring out of my hand, reaching under the bed, trying desperately to get Fudge to come out. She sits at the back, out of reach glaring at me.

I resort to waving a roll of cross-stitch fabric under the bed in an attempt to encourage her to vacate. She ignores it, and then lies on it.

My stress levels are rising, my parents who are going away with us are due to arrive in 30 minutes, and I still need to run around with the vacuum. The cattery is expecting us imminently, and my hand is very painful and bleeding. And Fudge is still under the bed out of reach.

Eventually the waving of the roll of cross-stitch fabric works, and Fudge bolts out of the room and downstairs.

I follow, closing the spare room door behind me...

In the kitchen there is no sign, until I check on the seat of the chairs tucked under the table. There is Fudge curled up pretending not to see me. I reach towards her, and she hisses!

I grab her, and pop her in her carry box with Caramel. She immediately lies down happily, and denies having been a pain to catch.

My black top now has clumps of white hair all over it in addition to the ginger hairs - Fudge seems to moult clumps for added hair coverage.

I load the cats, their beds, scratching post and toys into the car, just as my parents arrive. Oh well, vacuuming will have to wait.

I let my parents in, point them to the kettle, and soft drinks, and take the cats off to the cattery.

They all sit quietly in the car, and when they arrive at the cattery happily go and explore their pen. They like it there as the lady who runs it plays with them, and gives them lots of cuddles and attention.

I head back to the house, and we made it in time for our ferry to France.

We had a very good weekend, and when I collected them on Tuesday morning, Fudge had a token Gandhi-style protest by going completely limp, but once in the box didn't try to get out, even when the door was opened to put Caramel in.

It seems Fudge doesn't like being put into the box, once in she's happy, she doesn't mind travelling, and she likes the various places we take her (cattery, my parents, Scott's mums), well except the vet. Of course, when the boxes are sat there with the doors open, and we're not going anywhere she will go in and out by herself!

Copyright © Kate Morris
September 20, 2002

Read Kate's other story: Treacle Sponge