Poor Oscar. At his last Vet Check, the Vet had issued the dreaded edict: Diet Time. It was true that he was becoming a bit too comfortable in his nether regions, but since I didn't overfeed him, I had put it down to his genes. "Not so Ali" said the Vet. "If he carries on like this, he won't be able to get through the cat flap."

So Oscar was put on a diet. To my complete amazement, he didn't seem to mind a bit. Not only did the new regime not bother him, but as the weeks passed he didn't lose any weight. Not even an ounce.

Now I knew that Oscar used to go a visiting. Although he spent the majority of his time at home with his sister Charley, there were two or three hours in the day when Oscar used to go about important territorial cat business. He was a real character people cat and considered perpetual human strokies and visitation rights par for the course. Perhaps, I thought, maybe one of the neighbours is feeding him? Could this account for his diet failure? So that morning, I attached a little note to his collar and it said: "The Vet has put me on a diet due to cat flap exit/entrance difficulties. If you have the time, could you please telephone my home human and let her know of any foodie adventures that I have had over the last few weeks since my diet doesn't seem to be going too well? Thanks and Purrs. Oscar."

When I got home from work that afternoon, I was tired. Just as I was sitting down to a nice glass of chilled wine, the phone rang. It was the deli up the street and they reported that Oscar was a constant visitor, that they loved him to bits, that his favourite was chopped liver and that they were very sorry and would not feed him again.

Good, I thought. That's Oscar sorted. Puzzle solved. Not quite. When I played back the messages on my telephone answering machine, there were fourteen of them. Yes, fourteen. And all to do with Oscar. I was told about his foodie tastes from smoked salmon to the choicest of choice cat foods to all sorts. Oscar had the entire neighbourhood conned. His "I'm staaarving" yowl with loads of appealing purrs and head butts mixed in had all and sundry heading for the tin opener and each person/family concerned was convinced that they were the only ones that Oscar visited in this way - that they were his special friends.

What a con artist, I ask you. If he comes back in his next life time as a city trader, he'll make a fortune. Meanwhile, his diet was finally a success and I am pleased to report that although everyone resisted his foodie pleas from then on, his human networking continued unabated. That's my Oscar - The Character Cat.

Copyright © Ali Cassel
February 21, 2001