The homing cat (London)

(Also see: The homing pigeon that won’t go home.)

A friend, Daniel, bought a house in north London from a lady who then moved a few streets away.  

    Her cat — a pale stripey tom that looks like a discoloured zebra — refuses to accept that they have now moved and keeps coming back to his old home, blatantly lying around in the patio area just outside the kitchen, in the covered patio at the bottom of the garden, or just about anywhere he cares to occupy proprietorially, as if it was still his territory.  

    If he was shooed away, he’d move only just out of striking distance, e.g., from the kitchen patio area to the back patio.  

    If Daniel kept up the chasing, he’d move out of the garden only as far as just the other side of the back fence, then sit on the roof of that garden’s shed, and vociferously and plaintively rail at Daniel about the injustice of being ousted from what he takes to be his rightful turf.  

    He’d easily out-meow you — cat food manufacturers should cash in on his energy levels and approach his mistress about getting him to star in their adverts for their products.  

    I was witness, on one occasion, to Daniel chasing him out of the back patio area and his fully answering back from the top of the neighbour’s garden shed.

Daniel:  Go home!

Cat:       M-E-O-W.

Daniel:  Go home.  This is not your home anymore!

Cat:       M-E-E-O-O-W-W-W.

    And it went on and on and on.  

    Even after Daniel gave up arguing, the cat still didn’t let up, carrying on with his one-party verbal war like a grumpy old man muttering loudly, obviously aggrieved at being turned out of what he still perceived as his home.

    The cat’s name?  Believe it or not: Homer.

(London, Summer 2011)