Cats, Toast and the Vengeful House Imp

It was a clear, cool autumnal morning, when the neighbourhood cats became obsessed with my toast. Not just slightly interested. Not just sniffing curiously at the edges. Obsessed - in a full-on Stephen King / Steve Buscemi eyes / psychopathic stalker kind of a way. It was disturbing, freaky, not to mention downright abnormal behaviour for a creature of the feline persuasion. I've never seen cats act this way before. Marmosets, dingoes and aardvarks, yes, but never cats. Let me tell you what happened...

It was a clear, cool autumnal morning, as previously explained. I was sitting out in my back yard, wearing only my Hawaiian patterned boxer shorts, my skin covered in a thin layer of engine grease, as is the norm. I was awaiting the delivery of my morning toast from my house imp, Frankie, when something happened which was to be a portent of the day's events...

The family of cobras which live next door normally keep themselves to themselves. On this particular morning, however, they did not. I should have realised something was up when I felt the complex beats of The Celine Dion Bangra Remix Album thumping through the floorboards at five in the morning. I did, however, think almost nothing of it, as I flipped on my Tuneless Tunes That Go BUM-BUM-BUM Which Your Gran Will Hate to compensate. I really should have seen this as a divine omen of things to come, because what happened next was just bonkers...

I say, 'what happened next,' where I should say, 'what happened after two hours of The Celine Dion Bangra Remix Album and Tuneless Tunes That Go BUM-BUM-BUM Which Your Gran Will Hate, and before sitting in my yard, wearing only my Hawaiian patterned boxer shorts, my skin covered in a thin layer of engine grease, awaiting the delivery of my morning toast from my house imp, Frankie,' but that would be what is known in popular parlance as 'splitting hairs,' so, in the interest of keeping all one's creative hairs intact and refraining from disturbing the flow of the narrative any more than it already has been, I shall continue herewith my exposition of what happened... next... (as it were)...

The family of cobras were normally a pretty amiable bunch. For cobras. They'd happily lend you a cup of sugar, look after your pet guinea pig while you were off sunning yourself in Pershore for a fortnight (although on more than one occasion the guinea pig had disappeared in mysterious circumstances during my absence), take in parcels for you and other neighbourly acts of general friendliness. On this particular morning, however, after the Celine Dion and so forth, when I popped round and politely asked if they could readjust the arrangement of tiles on their roof, on account of the fact that they were disturbing the flow of chi to my abode and thus affecting the feng shui therein, Mr. Cobra (who had answered the door) merely huffed, uttered some kind of Cobra-ese expletive and slammed the door in my face.

Well! Most impolite, thought I, but opted to take no further action re the roof tiles, deciding that it was probably just a Bad Cobra Day, and that I could probably cope with a day of chi disturbance and call upon Mr. and Mrs. Cobra to instigate the tile adjustment the following morning, when hopefully the sun was shining more brightly within the House of Cobra. Big mistake! For I now feel, in retrospect, that it was most definitely the disturbance in the flow of chi that had, in part, incited the cats to act most strangely in regard of my toast on that clear, cool autumnal morning...

So there I was, munching away, when things started to turn a bit weird. It started with Sparkie, the Persian Blue from number thirty-two. Said exotic feline crept through the hole in the fence, sidled up to me and started to sniff at my engine grease-covered big toe (the one on my left foot, for those who are concerned with such details). I smiled and wiggled said toe, tickling said pussy under the chin. Sparkie purred a bit, then stopped sniffing the toe and diverted his attention to the toast. I say, 'diverted his attention'; I should say, 'dived headlong onto the plate, scattering slices of said hot and generously buttered savoury snack to all four corners of the yard.' There was even a slice or two which was projected at such a velocity, that it found itself within the garden of the House of Cobra! Which, given the mood of the occupants of such that morning, I felt somewhat nervous as to the potential consequences of.

'Sparkie!' exclaimed I. 'What's got into you, you little tyke?'

But Sparkie merely looked at me with those big, innocent eyes and proceeded to lick at the slice that had landed face-down on my belly button.

Ahh well, thought I; it's only toast ' and ordered my house imp to fetch me some more.

The house imp, being a good little house imp, did so speedily, efficiently and with an almost supernatural attention to detail. Frankie knew how I liked my toast! Which was hardly surprising, considering he had been fetching me my morning toast every day for the last twelve-and-a-half years.

'There you are, master,' said Frankie, as he handed me my plate.

'Thank you, Frankie,' said I. 'You may go and iron my underpants now.'

'Thank you, master,' said Frankie. And off he went, happy little grateful soul that he was.

So I had my second plate of toast. And Sparkie was curled up contentedly under my armpit. And all seemed right with the world. Apart from the toast strewn over the yard. And the sound of Mr. Cobra shouting, 'what the [Cobra-ese expletive] is this toast doing in my garden?!' Other than that, all was fine, the toast was good, and the house imp was preparing to remove the creases from my smalls. What more could you ask for in life? Then the second cat appeared...

And the third...

And the fourth...

And every damned cat in the neighbourhood came creeping through the hole in the fence, leaping from the rooftops, sliding down the drainpipes... one even dug its way up from beneath the vegetable patch, via a tunnel that it must've been planning and constructing for weeks! I don't need to tell you, I was afraid. Not only for the safety of my toast, but for my now terrifyingly exposed engine grease-covered flesh. What, in the name of Jiminy Cricket's rickets, was going on?! I can honestly say I have never seen so many rampant, toast-fixated pussies in my life. Needless to say, I didn't hang around...

I grabbed my plate, leapt over the fence, legged it down the back alleyway and into the street beyond. It may not surprise you to hear that the army of furious felines did the same. What the hell's in this toast?!, thought I, as I opted to take the rather bold move of flinging myself into the canal, plate held aloft, then swimming to the other side in a style which will henceforth be known as Thrashing Wildly About With Only One Arm And Two Legs Whilst Being Chased By Hordes of Lunatic Cats.

So I somehow got to the other side, dragged myself up onto the bank - all the while determined to keep my toast dry and edible - and assessed the situation of my pursuers...

And there they were. All fur and fury. Standing at the opposite bank. Making that sqeally noise that cats make ('caterwauling,' I think it's called) when they desperately want something they can't have. I felt victorious. Yet also confused. And wet (although not so wet as I might have been if not for the engine grease). What was it all about then? What had caused an entire neighbourhood of cats (and beyond, I now suspected) to... a) be able to smell my toast from God knows how far away... and b) want some of it?

I was puzzled.

Vexed.

Disturbed.

Until...

I saw him. Standing there. Amongst the cats. Evil grin plastered on his face. A face that had previously seemed so innocent. So grateful. So happy. So willing to slap half a dozen slices on the grill, cook to my very exacting standards and then spread each slice with a precisely measure portion of Unsalted Lurpak. Then iron my underpants. Then pick the tiny bits of dirt from the grips of the souls of my hiking boots. Then...

'You're fired!' I called to the treacherous house imp at the far bank of the canal, who had somehow infected my morning's toast with something that made it irresistible to the ravenous, squealing cats who he stood amongst. 'But not until you've finished cleaning the scummy bits from the bath with an old toothbrush!'

That told him!

And thus Frankie the house imp was fired.

I hired another one. But I did it with a heavy heart. With all that he had done, I'll still miss the old bugger. You don't forget twelve-and-a-half years in a hurry. And no one makes toast like Frankie did. Not that I've been able to bring myself to eat the stuff since that fateful morning. I expect the scars of betrayal will heal one day. But until they do...

Well...

Cornflakes are nicer than you'd think!

[FIN]