In 1995 new neighbours moved in next door. They had a small, grey cat called Ollie.

Ollie thought he was so adorable that any self-respecting neighbour would welcome his attentions.

"I'm not letting that cat in the house" I said. "If we ignore him he'll go back home!"

Ollie treated us to the pleasure of his voice. His megaphone meow was so loud that it could be heard a couple of houses away. He also enjoyed gardening and couldn't understand why I didn't relish weeding the garden with a cat perched on my back. He frequently stranded himself on our roof and screamed until his owners arrived with a ladder to effect a rescue.

Our big, black cat Rum Tum was usually ready to murder any animal who put a paw on his territory. But Ollie was different and confusing. How could you murder a cat that lay on its back and presented its throat for biting. Besides, what cat made a noise like that? Perhaps it wasn't a cat at all. Rum Tum decided to ignore him.

A widow lady from several doors away stopped to talk to me as I pruned the roses. "You have such a lovely cat," she gushed. "I hope you don't mind but I always feed him chicken when he calls."

"He's not our cat," I said.

The lady across the road was less complimentary. "That grey cat of yours tried to eat my cockatiel," she snapped, "can't you keep him home?"

"He's not our cat," I said.

We went overseas for two months and my brother stayed in the house and looked after Rum Tum. When we arrived home Ollie had my brother besotted. "What a marvellous cat," he enthused "I feed him with Rummy and he sleeps on my bed!"

I looked at Ollie. He was definitely wearing a smirk. He gave a megaphone meow - he had won. Or had he. More about Ollie at a later date.

Copyright © Beverley Dunlop
January 21, 2000